Jovian Chronicles: Reign of Chaos
by Deathworm
Summary: Based on the cinematic action roleplaying game from Dream Pod 9. It's been awhile but Episodes 33 and 34 are up now. The Bundesarmee is girding itself for the coming storm while the Jovians are trying to avoid the very same thing.
1. 001 Rumors of War

**RUMORS OF WAR**

_**There is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others.**_

-Niccolò Machiavelli-

**10 NOVEMBER 2212**

**KURTZENHEIM, PAVONIA PRINCIPALITY**

**MARTIAN FEDERATION, MARS**

The crowds had taken to the streets surrounding the sprawling complexes that housed the Ministry of Peace and the Ministry of Truth once more as the lunch hour drew to a close in the capital of the Martian Federation. Lois Lafraniere, Zenith Orbital Network (ZONET) star investigative reporter, took this as her cue to rise to her feet. Her broadcast was due to begin in a few minutes.

Despite the general buzz of the human swarms in transit, she had to admit that there was a certain perverse sense of order to the mass migration of workers if one devoted enough time to study the movement of humans from the State-run cafeterias to their various workplaces.

Ensuring the orderly passage of traffic, both human and vehicular (most of it government-own or public transport, since private ownership of vehicles was almost unheard of in the Federation), were the immaculately dressed _Polizei_ officers in their butterscotch uniforms who manned every street corner and road crossing, ensuring that everyone waited their turn.

Lois wanted to laugh humorlessly. The scene before her looked so much a totalitarian tyrant's dream come true, except for the fact that it was no dream and that the Federation _was_ a totalitarian state. She glanced over at the sight of the two Ministry compounds resting side by side on _Freiheitstrasse_ in central Kurtzenheim.

_This whole nation is a contradiction of terms_, she found herself thinking for the umpteenth time that hour as she studied the equally unyielding headquarters of the Ministry of Peace and the Ministry of Truth. The former oversaw the operations of the Federation's _Militär_, which comprised of the _MartianBundesArmee,_ the _MartianBundesLuftwaffe_ and the _MartianBundesPlatzMarine_ while the latter handled the state media and public information dissemination networks. Of course, in a twisted sort of way, it only made sense for the organization tasked with propaganda and indoctrination to be based beside the nation's military.

To her and many outsiders, the only way to tell the two fortress-like buildings apart was the guards at the entrance. Where the home of the Federation's propaganda machine was guarded by unsmiling police officers in their trademark yellow-brown uniforms, its neighbor was protected by men and women of the Federal Army, Air Force and Navy, recognizable in the crimson jackets and jet black trousers of their Dress Uniforms. And while the police had a stun baton and a service pistol attached to their belts, the military guards clutched fully-automatic assault rifles across their chests.

And all of this could be found on _Freiheitstrasse_ or 'Freedom Street'. She was surprised that neither the Ministry Justice nor the Ministry of Liberty had their premises along anywhere along the road that ran through much of the capital's heart. That would probably have been the ultimate contradiction of terms.

Lois Lafraniere _hated_ the way the Federate government and its menagerie of enforcers, armed or otherwise, ran practically every aspect of its citizens' lives. Sure, her career as a reporter had allowed her to see more of the Solar System than most other individuals could ever dream of in their lifetimes. She had worked amongst the dour Selenites on Luna where their mania for safety and efficiency pervaded every facet of their life and bordered on neurosis. While pursuing several stories amongst the Mercurians, she had found the severe overcrowding and the consequent veneration of private time and space far too detrimental to her gregarious disposition.

But what made the Federation worse than any of these other stifling societies was the insidious way in which the government transformed its people into mindless automatons who had little appreciation for freedom of thought or action. Even as she prepared for her next broadcast, she watched the blank-faced serfs of the monolithic bureaucracies trudge past her, paying scant little interest to her and her camera.

_It's different here_, she thought to herself. In the other Solar nations, the presence of a camera emblazoned with the ZONET logo invariably provoked the interest of the average passerby. In some places, the locals even seemed eager to appear on interplanetary news. Here in the Federation, the people seemed to ignore her almost zealously, as if their lives depended on it. Of course, if one bothered to look around, such an assumption probably wasn't too far from the truth.

Pairs of armed and ever-present _Polizisten_, who were the uniformed arm of the _Polizei_, strutted amidst the crowd, unsmiling faces partially hidden behind their helmets equipped with high-tech surveillance gear to better monitor the crowds. In addition to these, there were the dozens of cameras perched prominently on nearby street lamps and buildings.

And for every one of those cameras Lois saw, she knew that there were dozens more hidden elsewhere. For all she knew, the bench she was currently using as the pedestal for her own news camera could have contained one.

She had heard rumors that the surveillance cameras were tied to pattern and threat-recognition systems programmed to distinguish certain tones of voice and physical gestures as hostile. Such occurrences would be logged and would earn a visit from the nearest _Polizei _patrol. While she wasn't sure if it were technologically possible or even legal as far as the Edicts went, she harbored no doubts about the Federal government's willingness to employ such a system if it existed. Her friendly contacts at the Ministry of Liberty were understandably less than thrilled when she had tried to verify such allegations.

And if the roving police patrols and cameras were not enough, there were the ubiquitous _Roteschutzkappen_ or 'Red Caps'. According to State media, these were capable citizens tasked with keeping abreast of matters in their neighborhoods and workplaces who also assisted the _Polizei_ in an auxiliary capacity. The Federation could call them whatever they liked. But Lois could think of only one word to describe them - informants. Individuals tasked with spying on their neighbors and colleagues and reporting them to the authorities for charges real or imagined.

And for such despicable individuals to be officially recognized with uniforms and police-grade equipment was a complete anathema to her. It was experiences such as these that made her realize how sheltered a life she had lived back in Olympus where she had been born. While she may have readily pointed out that the Jovian government seldom made wise decisions, she never thought she'd see a government make stupid decisions. It seemed as if everything in the Federation was calling out to her to make her feel that she had made a bad choice running away from Olympus.

Not that she would ever countenance admitting her mistake openly.

And it was soul-crushing to see the citizens of the Federation living with this, day in, day out for as long as all of them could remember. Each one of them was electronically tagged. Each one was closely monitored and liable to be pulled up for questioning at any time and for any reason. And for every new law that stripped them of what little freedom they possessed, they coined the phrase: _während der daur der aktuellen krise_. "For the duration of the current crisis", they would say, with little more than a shrug. Lois shuddered at that. It was a state of 'crisis' that had lasted for over a century.

A passing Red Cap seemed to catch her gaze. For a moment she wondered if he was going to demand to see her papers. He had every right to. But his chiseled features gave way to a tiny smile and Lois allowed the edges of her mouth to twitch slightly in response as he strolled past and went on his way, eyes returning to watch his fellow Federates keenly.

When her colleague Jennifer Mathur uncovered evidence of the Martian Free Republic's involvement in the Martian Elevator disaster that occurred back in 2210, ZONET reporters were suddenly the new friends of the normally frigid and obstructionist minions from the Ministry of Truth. Apparently, that sentiment had permeated all the way down to the average man in the street.

Checking her wristwatch, she saw that it was almost time. She rechecked the battery reserves for her camera, tested the audio recording levels and made sure her transmitter unit was properly configured. Her watch beeped once and she thumbed the hand controller that started recording and transmitting, adjusting the clip-on mike on the lapels of her jacket as she did so.

There was the familiar tension working her way into her gut followed by the normal flash of panic as she imagined herself forgetting her lines. Even though she wouldn't be going live, she hated doing multiple takes, believing that each successive take diluted her enthusiasm and passion. The watch beep again and she looked into the camera's lens, flashing her most beatific on-camera smile.

"Tensions in the Martian Federation remain high as the government spends yet another day waiting for a breakthrough in talks being held at the USN General Assembly on Pyrea Station. This morning, representatives from the Ministry of Truth reiterated that the Federation quote, 'values the peace it currently enjoys with the Republic, but firmly believes that reparations remain an unavoidable obligation of the Republican government in order to smooth strained relations between the two nations'."

Lois scoffed mentally. It was just the Federation's way of garnering the moral high ground for itself. She knew the Republic would never give in fully to the Federation's demands. "According to that same statement, Federation officials stressed that the onus is on of both sides to work together to maintain peace and unless the reparations are made, alternative methods of resolution would have to be sought. The present crisis between the two Martian nations began when this network uncovered evidence of Republican involvement in the disastrous Martian Elevator Crash which occurred 2210."

Lois found her mind speeding through the history that went behind this story. The mention of the Elevator Crash, the most horrific disaster in recent history, reminded her of the time she had seen the 'Vator Crater from Martian orbit. Known as the 'Vator Vallis' by the locals, the 20,800 kilometer long crater had wrapped itself around the planet's equator, stretching out from Pavonis Mons when the Elevator's cable came crashing down.

Viewing the awesome gash from orbit left no illusions as to the magnitude of destruction that had befallen the settlements - both Federate and Republic - that had sat on the equator. Shaking off those thoughts, she secretly feared that had spent too long staring at the camera and she forced herself to continue.

"Despite the presentation of such evidence, the Republic government maintains its innocence and has insisted that the blame lies in the hands of renegade militia groups based in the Isidis Planitia. These same groups have also been alleged to be behind many of the recent border violations into Federate territory. The Federate Ministry of Truth has rejected the Republic's quote, 'weak attempts to shift the blame away from itself to the usual suspects'. Meanwhile, the mood in Kurtzenheim remains one of anticipation. With the Republic's refusal to give in to Federate demands for reparations, one can only speculate at what will happen when the Federal government's patience finally runs out. If Martian history is anything to go by, then war may well be unavoidable."

She found herself suppressing an involuntary shudder. Catching sight of her own reflection in the camera's lens, she noted that her expression had grown grave. "All across the Federation, security has been stepped up. Border patrols have increased significantly, especially in light of the increasing violence of the border incursions. Unless new evidence surfaces to prove the validity of the Republic's claims, the Federation retains the moral high ground as the victim and with it, the trigger for the next Martian war. Without a breakthrough in the USN Assembly negotiations or a halt to the border raids, the matter of war may not be a question of if but of when."

Lafraniere paused, partly out of relief that none of the bothersome Federate officials had interrupted her broadcast and partly for the dramatic effect that she knew appealed to the people writing her paycheck. Then finally, in a far more somber tone than with which she had first begun, she concluded her broadcast.

"This is Lois Lafraniere for ZONET News, reporting from Kurtzenheim, Mars."


	2. 002 First Impressions

**FIRST IMPRESSIONS**

**_I may have my faults but being wrong ain't one of them_**.

-Jimmy Hoffa-

**15 NOVEMBER 2212  
KHANNAN STATION, OLYMPUS  
JOVIAN CONFEDERATION**

Her name was Breanna Chan. Willowy, graceful and petite with raven-black hair and aquiline features that accentuated her spunky and confrontational nature, she could easily have passed as just another one of the thousands who had flocked enthusiastically to the JAF's banner.

As much as that was what she looked like, she wasn't half as excited as most of her peers who were seated around her aboard the shuttle that was threading its way through the gaps between the ships that seemed to hang motionlessly around Khannan Station.

She had to concede that she had been an impressionable girl for much of her teenage life. It was a trait that had diminished somewhat over the past two years - or so she would like to think. _The problem is_, she mused as she stared out the view port at the dormant warships that lay at 'anchor' outside, _I simply don't know what to think these days_.

The journey to Khannan had begun four years previously when her parents had reluctantly allowed her the opportunity of a lifetime to leave home when she turned sweet sixteen to spend a year traveling the Solar System on an internship with the Intersettlement Geographical Service.

Even before that, Breanna had wanted to spend her life out in space. Living inside a colony cylinder like Elysée Station, was simply not enough. She needed to be out there in the inky blackness with nothing more than a spacesuit or a cockpit shielding her. There was something about the hard vacuum that spoke of freedom and excitement. And it was to this same sense of wanderlust that the Chan family had 'lost' its first child. Breanna's elder sister had left home for a career in the JAF the year she was away with the IGS.

Breanna had not seen her since, though the infrequent and irregular email would assure the family that she was still alive while providing precious little else. She pushed the memory of her elder sister out of her mind. It wasn't important. It had ceased to be important a long time ago.

The year she spent with IGS had truly been an eye-opener, granting her opportunities that she could never have imagined in her younger days. Now, at the age of twenty, she had already tried her hand at piloting a spaceship and was proficient in linear frame and exo-suit operations.

Returning from her time internship had convinced her beyond a doubt that her future lay outside the meters-thick walls that surrounded her home on Elysée. Of course, with their firstborn already pursuing a life of freedom flying interceptors and exo-armors for the JAF, Breanna's parents had been anything but thrilled.

Any dreams that her parents had of her picking up a civilian career, like the illusion of continuing peace and prosperity for the Jovian Confederation evaporated the day the CEGA Navy launched its ill-fated attack on Elysée. Breanna decided that she would join the thousands of other enraged Jovians who were flocking to register for military service, reasoning that it would be far easier to ask her parents for forgiveness regarding her 'oversight' than to actually ask for their permission to enlist.

Breanna smiled humorlessly at the memory of her parents' reaction when they found out about her decision only after the JAF sent an acknowledgement letter thanking her for her interest in a military career. They had tried to get her to change her mind. But war frenzy had gripped the Confederation in 2210 and she had remained adamant.

The media had stoked the once-dormant fiery passions of Jovians like her who had believed they could live in isolation from the rest of the Solar System and there was no backing down from the threat presented by the CEGA's military. But unlike many of her peers, she didn't hate the CEGA. Not after having worked with many Earthers during her time with IGS. It was its imperialistic leaders that were the true threat. Of course, it didn't really make much difference to most of the Jovian population.

In the end, her parents' fears seemed relatively unfounded as her application for enlistment had gone unanswered. Swamped with eager recruits, the JAF found itself with the unprecedented luxury of having to choose the very best candidates first. Six months passed following the Battle of Elysée and nothing happened.

2211 came and went and still nothing happened. Having ceased her studies pending her enlistment, Breanna's snap decision to enlist slowly became an embarrassing dinner table topic that was soon best left buried. As the months of waiting stretched by, and the post-Elysée furor died down, Breanna had found her own excitement for a life in the JAF waning.

Tired of waiting for the JAF to call on her and sick of the nagging from her parents, she reluctantly took up a job as an EVA specialist, helping in the maintenance of civilian vessels that were laid up at the Tiananmen National Spaceport. It wasn't terribly exciting work, but at least she got to work out in a Decker exo-suit which meant spending a lot of time in open space.

And just when it had seemed as if the JAF had decided she had made her choice as an impulse and was willing to overlook her whimsical decision, her enlistment notice finally arrived. As an all-volunteer force, the JAF had seen a fair share of applicants changing their minds by the time they receive their enlistment notices. She could have easily written back to the JAF Personnel Department, thanking them graciously for accepting her application (albeit belatedly) and then politely telling them where they could shove the job offer and simply moved on.

But too much pride had been invested in this opportunity. And far too many harsh words had been exchanged between her and her parents. As much as she wanted to, the stubborn core of Breanna Chan's heart made it such that she could not refuse. Even if her parents were willing to forget her impulsiveness with no more than a subtle shaking of their heads and a shrug (which would be highly unlikely), Breanna knew her siblings would never let her live it down.

So it was with a troubled heart that she packed her personal effects and left her home on two days before. It was a journey that had brought her to this point, strapped into the passenger cabin of a JAF-chartered shuttle on approach towards the roost of Gamma Division.

Somewhere aboard the massive colony cylinder looming ahead of her, she would be inducted into the most powerful military in the Solar System and taught the arts of war. Not that she was particularly keen on killing, she thought to herself as the shuttle trawled past a _Forge_-class carrier that was preparing to get underway. _No_, she shook her head. She certainly never enjoyed fighting despite being incurably stubborn. She had been mad with the CEGA, at least for the couple of months following the Battle. And like many spacers before, much of the JAF's allure was due to its cutting edge technology.

The shuttle had entered Khannan Base now and she was greeted with the sight of at least a dozen warships hovering serenely in their respective docks. A small fleet of exo-suited workers and maintenance pods swarmed around the quiescent men o' war, engaged in the many tasks that Breanna had grown accustomed to in her prior employment. Surrounding each work team was a small constellation of Maintenance Robots. Breanna smiled. _If the JAF's looking for more people to fix its ships, then things weren't going to be that bad_, Breanna thought to herself as she admired the choreographed efficiency of the dockyard workers.

"Stand by for docking," the overhead speakers blared. "All passengers secure for docking."

She checked her own safety harness and looked out the window one last time before the shuttle complete one last turn and was swallowed up by a massive docking bay. The touchdown itself was uneventful and Breanna thought that the pilot may have been putting on a show for the benefit of the recruits aboard. Unlike most civilian flights that she had been on, the craft was had been secured in record time. A heartbeat after they were given the all clear, the shuttle's hatches opened to disgorge its human cargo. All of a sudden, everyone had thrown off their safety harnesses simultaneously, standing up to reach for the overhead baggage compartments.

Breanna retrieved her personal bag with significantly less trouble than her peers. Unlike many of them, her bag was far smaller and manageable. There wasn't a great deal to bring anyway. She didn't own much and most of what she owned was better left at home, perhaps never to be seen again. The JAF was supposed to provide for her needs from now on. Or at least, that's what the recruitment brochures said.

She waited patiently as a few other recruits struggled past her with their bulging bags. Even in the reduced gravity of the shuttle bay, those bags were still unwieldy and she was silently glad that she had left most of her stuff behind. Watching fellow recruits struggle, she wondered how some of them had managed to passed their Physical.

Of course, she vaguely knew that being medically fit had little to do with being physically fit and she recalled her own disappointment when the medical officer at the recruiting station had declared her to be a sterling specimen of a 23rd century space-dwelling human female. The Physical Examination had been her last chance to duck out of the JAF without her having to make any requests and she had passed it with flying colors.

Finally the way was clear and she stepped out into the aisle to make her way off the shuttle. She had barely made it out when she found herself being bowled over by an immense weight crashing into her back.

"Oops! Look out!" She heard someone call out several moments too late just as she tumbled face-first onto the floor, the duffel landing on top of her.

Things may have weighed next to nothing in microgravity but they still retained their mass and being struck by a duffel bag that had literally flown down the aisle was not particularly funny while careening into the deck of the thinly-carpeted aisle of the shuttle's passenger compartment still hurt.

"I'm sorry. Let me help you up." The bag was lifted off her back and she turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered man offering his hand to her.

"No, thank you." Breanna said coldly as she hauled herself up, too embarrassed to say anything more caustic. A few other recruits in the adjacent aisles had paused to gawk at and she felt her ears tingling as her features flushed red. "What the hell are you all staring at? Never seen someone fall before?"

That seemed to do the trick and the spectators quickly picked up their things and launched towards the exit hatch. Breanna struggled to count to ten as she bent down to retrieve her fallen bag. She could hardly believe it. She hadn't even been sworn in and already she had come across as a clumsy fool to her peers.

"Look, I'm really sorry." The recruit who had knocked her down was repeating apologetically. "I really didn't mean it."

"You should have just watched where you were going." Breanna growled as she turned to face the man with the bulging duffel. On closer inspection, she realized that despite his height and bulk, his face was young, almost cherubic and seemingly untouched by the hardships of having to make one's own living in space. The cut of his civilian clothes told her that he certainly had not grown up lacking finances while his awkward gait told her that he wasn't really used to moving in zero gravity like she was.

"Ok, ok, _fine_. Like I said, I'm sorry." The man sounded a little frustrated now, throwing his hands up in exasperation and almost tipping himself over before grabbing on to a nearby seat to steady himself. "Would you want me to carry your bag? Would that make you feel better, princess?"

Breanna scowled at the sarcasm then shook her head. "No, I wouldn't have you soil my stuff, thank you very much. Besides, you've got all the grace of a cow and I'd be insane to trust you with my bag."

"Well, _fine_ then . . ." He shrugged in exasperation, his features reddening. They stared at each other for a moment before he extended his hand once more, this time far more tentatively than before. "John Cheah."

"What?"

"That's my name. John Cheah." His mouth twitched into a wry smile. "You know, from where I come from, it's normally polite to exchange introductions."

"Oh, really. And where exactly would that be . . . John?" She eyed him suspiciously, her tone still frigid.

"Elysée, Olympus."

"Funny," Breanna said without a trace of warmth or humor. "That's where I'm from too and I don't recall having to be that friendly to strangers . . . especially the ones who've just run you down."

"Oh, _fine_. Suit yourself then." John rolled his eyes in disgust.

Before she could formulate a response to that, another voice, emanating from the front of the passenger cabin, interrupted them. Breanna recognized the mean-faced Corporal as the shuttle's crew chief.

"What the _hell_ are you two clowns waiting for? An engraved invitation? You think this is some damn pleasure cruise? Get the hell out there and into formation like you're supposed to!"

The two recruits needed no further encouragement and they scrambled towards the exit hatch, the crew chief hounding them with invective all the way. They pounded down the ramp emerging from the shuttle into a scene of organized chaos. Scores of young men and women were standing in rows of varying neatness. The neatest rows belonged to those who were already standing in clumps of five, with their belongings laid out next to them. Those who fidgeted seemed to draw the attention of the hawk-eyed Sergeants and Corporals who lashed out with curses and well-placed smacks from the batons that apparently marked them as instructors.

Other instructors were calling out names and thrusting the clueless youths into similar five-person squads, occasionally plucking a particularly lost recruit and hurling him into the arms of another waiting instructor.

"Now _what_?" John asked as he took in the scene before him.

"Guess we ask for directions." Breanna shrugged.

"Oh, good idea! Allow me . . ." John nodded, as if still eager to redeem himself. With his heavy bag still resting on his shoulder, John shambled almost uncontrollably towards the nearest man in uniform.

Breanna felt the urge to shout a warning but she was too late. John, feet floating inches too far from the deck and unused to the burden he was carrying, slammed into the man from behind. But to her surprise and more so to John's the man somehow managed to turn at the last moment and brace himself against a nearby crate so that he barely moved.

"So sorry about this, sir!" John apologized profusely and he dropped his bag and straightened his designer clothes. He patted the uniformed man on the shoulder. "I'm still a bit new to all this zero-gee stuff. I'm wondering if you could tell me what my friend and I should be doing."

Even as Breanna glided over to the two, she found something very ominous about the look on the other man's face and the twin chevrons on his sleeve.

"First, you can get your filthy, unwashed hands off my uniform." The man in the uniform said. "Secondly, you will not call me 'sir'. I work for a living. I am the company sergeant major. And in case you don't understand what that means, it means that I'm the man who's going to make life a living hell for you as long as you're a pimply little recruit."

"Oh . . ."

"What's your name, boy?"

"Uh . . . John. My name is John." John said sheepishly while Breanna froze, suddenly recognizing the JAF man's insignia as those of a Master Sergeant. "What's yours, sir?" John added with a nervous smile.

"Silence, you scumbag! I am Master Sergeant Kruger and you do _not_ call me 'sir'! You will address me as 'Sergeant Major'', you fat, slimy, scum-sucking piece of shit puke! You get me?"

John remained silent.

"Do you understand what I just said, boy?"

"Yes, si . . . I mean, yes, Master Sergeant!"

"_Sergeant Major_, damn it! God! Can't you understand _anything_? You will address me as 'Sergeant Major', you disgusting, bloated, stinking pile of maggot puke!" The man growled and Breanna felt her hair standing on end. "What's your full name?"

John gulped before answering, "John Cheah, Sergeant Major!"

"And what about you?" The Master Sergeant turned his burning gaze at Breanna. "What's your name, pipsqueak?"

Breanna felt her features flush red but her attempt at an angry retort was caught midway in her throat, emerging only as a rather subdued, "Recruit Breanna Chan, Sergeant Major."

Seemingly satisfied at having put the fear of God into the two recruits, the Sergeant Major whipped out his datapad and ran some queries before looking up at them again. "So you're the two pukes that Second Platoon is looking for."

"Um, ok . . . Second Platoon, right. We'll just go look for them now, Sergeant Major. Sorry for the trouble." John said shamefacedly and he hefted his bag onto his shoulder once more. "Come on, Breanna. Let's go."

"Hold it, slimeball." The Sergeant Major barked. "You ain't going nowhere! We've got enough chaos as it is, having to boot you rookie pukes around. Sergeant Pulver!"

A moment later, a JAF Sergeant, muscles bulging under the layers of his uniform glided up to Kruger. "Yes, Sergeant Major?"

"I believe I've found, or rather I've been found by your two lost sheep, Sergeant." The Sergeant Major said evenly.

The Sergeant eyed both the recruits critically for a moment, then spoke, "Recruits Cheah and Chan?"

"Yes, Sergeant, that's us." Breanna replied in place of a silent John who was smarting from the embarrassment heaped upon him.

"Now you two stick close and follow me." Pulver growled at the two recruits before turning to Kruger. "Thanks, Sergeant Major."

"You're welcome, Pulver. Now get these slimeballs out of my sight and into formation on the double. And make sure they stay out of trouble! Especially the boy."

"Yes, Sergeant Major!"

Pulver looked at the two forlorn recruits and waved them after him as he took off towards the crowd of recruits that was finally sorting themselves out. "Come on, you two. Let's go, on the double!"

Breanna and John looked at one another, John looking far less sanguine than when he was back on the shuttle. _Damn, what a lousy first impression I've made_, Breanna sighed as they both skipped off in Sergeant Pulver's wake towards the rapidly-straightening rows of recruits, _so much for trying to keep a low-profile._


	3. 003 Career Advancement

**CAREER ADVANCEMENT**

_**The only policy in high positions is an intense devotion to duty and the unswerving pursuit of the target, in spite of criticism - whispered or in the open. **_

-Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery-

**15 NOVEMBER 2212**

**APPROACHING GAIA CITY, MARITIME LEAGUE **

**EARTH, CEGA SPACE**

The deep dark blue sky exploded into existence around him, replacing the star-studded cloak of night-black that has enfolded him only moments before. The cloud layer was splayed out like a fleecy carpet beneath him and while the heavens arched around the cockpit as he sliced through the thin air more than twenty kilometers above the Atlantic Ocean.

Nudging the control stick slightly to the left and then to the right, Lieutenant Commander Alvin Ng savored the feeling of waggling his aircraft's wings and as they bit into the thickening air of Earth's stratosphere. After so many years of flying in the airless voids between the planets of the Solar System, it was a welcome sensation to be reacquainted with the joys of flying in a planetary atmosphere.

He watched the altitude reading on his Heads-Up Display scrolling off rapidly as he continued hurtled towards the ocean in a steep thirty-degree dive, his aging CFB-10D _Gnome_ fighter-bomber still bleeding off the speed that he had gained during his flight from Fort Gibraltar in orbit.

A few body-jarring moments later, he was past ten kilometers, having lost a great majority of his speed but still descending rapidly. Gripping the stick firmly with both hands, he managed to stave off the worst of the buffeting as his fighter encountered the thicker air in the Earth's troposphere.

_Passing through eight kilometers now_ . . . The Gnome was flying stable again as its speed dropped to something that was more manageable as far as atmospheric flight was concerned. He pushed the stick forward to achieve a steeper angle of descent, reveling in the familiar thrill of having the blood rush up into his head.

This was how it had started more than ten years ago, flying fighters for the air force of the Republic of Singapore before he applied for citizenship and a place in the CEGA Navy. The azure blue skies of the birthplace of mankind had once been his playground before it was replaced by the vaster expanse of space. _Seven kilometers now . . ._

With his rank and assignment, he could easily have found himself a place on an express military shuttle headed planetside. Failing which, he could always exercise the privilege of a CEGA military officer in transit to a new station and find a place aboard one of the earthbound elevator cars from any of the numerous skyhooks in orbit around Earth. Of course, it would certainly have been more comfortable, but wasn't as fast as piloting his own fighter down.

Nor was it even half as fun.

At five kilometers above the Earth, Alvin hauled back the stick abruptly and cut to the right, throwing the venerable fighter into a climbing barrel roll. He allowed the _Gnome_ to pirouette through the skies a few more times before leveling out to catch his breath. Spending so many years away from the 'normal' gravity of Earth had made him forget just how physically demanding it was to fly the skies of his native planet.

But if that simple series of maneuvers had winded him, it also left him hungry for more. Preparing himself for his next maneuver, he rolled the _Gnome _onto his back so that the blood rushed to his head as he hung upside down, five thousand meters above the world. He allowed himself to take a few breaths then pulled the stick towards himself, sending the _Gnome_ plunging towards the clouds below.

Again, the altimeter superimposed onto his HUD was scrolling off numbers at a frantic rate as the _Gnome_ lunged towards the yet unseen surface. His speed was building up once more as the wings shook. He felt the urge to laugh and would have done just that if it weren't for the feeling that his heart was trying to come out through his mouth. The earphones in his helmet crackled, breaking into his reverie. An almost-bored, feminine voice greeted him.

"_Gnome_ Five-One-Four, this is Gaia Traffic Control Center, we have you on our scope. Please acknowledge."

Alvin sighed. Well, the fun had to end somewhere. He pulled back on the stick and grunted as he felt the _g_s piling onto his lap. His former colleagues in the Singaporean air force had often compared the feeling to having an elephant on one's lap. It was an apt description, Alvin thought, except many of his CEGA comrades had no idea what an elephant was, particularly those who had grown up in the Orbital colonies. It took longer than expected to pull out of the dive but he finally leveled out at three thousand meters, the _Gnome_ groaning slightly in protest to remind Alvin of its age.

"Uh, _Gnome_ Five-One-Four, this is Gaia Traffic Control Centre, did you copy our last? Acknowledge, please." The voice seemed a little more concerned now. Alvin took a moment to catch his breath again. Clearly a sign that he had spent too long in zero gravity and it would be time to hit the gym again to get back in form. "_Gnome_ Five-One-Four, this is Gaia Traffic Control Centre . . ."

"Roger, Gaia TC, this is _Gnome_ Five-One-Four-Seven out of Fort Gibraltar, receiving you loud and clear." Alvin replied as he settled into a level flight path, skimming the tops of the clouds.

"Five-One-Four, what is your fuel state?"

"Uh, wait one . . . Still at eighty-four percent, Gaia TC." Alvin frowned slightly. "Why do you ask?"

"We've got a pair of shuttles inbound. High-priority. ETA coincides with your arrival. Need you to stay in the holding pattern when you arrive." Gaia Control explained.

"I filed a flight plan, Gaia TC." Alvin replied, somewhat unhappy about the prospect of having to circle Gaia City repeatedly while his slot in the landing pattern was usurped by a pair of ungainly shuttles coming down from Earth orbit. He had signed out the _Gnome_ so his journey would be faster than a shuttle ride.

"Understood, Five-One-Four. But they have priority. Apologies, Five-One-Four."

Alvin didn't reply for awhile. He studied the fuel gauge and his navigational display for a moment then called up Gaia Control. "Gaia TC, is the pattern free now?"

"Uh, wait one, Five-One-Four . . ." The woman on the other end was silent for awhile. "Not presently. But we'll be clear for about five in about nine minutes time. What are your intentions, Five-One-Four?"

"Request new landing window. Have recomputed my flight plan . . . ETA ten minutes from now."

"_Ten minutes_?" The air traffic controller's voice rose by an octave. "We read you still at four _hundred_ kilometers out, Five-One-Four."

"That's affirmative, Gaia TC. But I've got the fuel to burn." Alvin explained as a grin began to crease his features.

There was a pregnant pause before the flight controller came back on air. "Ok . . . Five-One-Four. I've cleared it with the Tower Officer. But you've got to be here in no more than twelve minutes."

"No problem, Gaia, just give me a vector."

"Come left, one-five degrees. Descend to two thousand meters and maintain altitude. You've got a clear run in."

"Thank you, Gaia. Much appreciated. See you in ten." Alvin was grinning from ear to ear as he ended the conversation. He checked the engine status display in the instrument panel in front of him and was pleased to see that despite his machine's apparent age it was still very much in fighting and flying condition. _Okay, let's see what this old bird can do_.

Bringing the _Gnome_ onto the new heading, he gripped the throttle lever and pushed it all the way forward. The stable whine of the CFB-10D's engines became a deafening roar which made the liquids in his chest gurgle. It was almost as if he was being kicked in the rear though the sensation wasn't as violent as it would have been if he had been flying in space. He tipped the stick forward and watched his altitude decrease while his speed increased.

While the force of acceleration wasn't anything like that which he had experienced in space combat - thanks to atmospheric conditions and the _Gnome_'s in-built acceleration protection - the clouds that rushed up to swallow his fighter gave him a greater sense of speed.

The fighter began to shudder once more as his speed approached Mach One, the engines roaring incessantly as they propelled the fighter to greater speeds. And then he was through the sound barrier, speed still climbing but the buffeting fading away as the streamlined _Gnome_ propelled itself towards Mach 2.

He watched his altitude carefully, something that took a bit of getting used to again after so many space tours. Here on Earth, screaming along at nearly two times the speed of sound just two thousand meters above the surface, a lapse of more than four seconds would put him in for a nasty encounter with the deck.

Clouds continued to billow past the cockpit, giving the world outside a ghostly quality as he descended towards his assigned altitude. And then they suddenly gave way and he found himself screaming over the cerulean waters of the Atlantic Ocean. As he leveled off once more, this time under the clouds, he finally found relief from the sun. Switching on the autopilot, he leaned back into his ejection seat and exhaled slowly as the clouds flashed overhead, allowing the occasional sun rays to bath him in their brilliance.

He found his mind wandering towards his latest assignment. It was a plum assignment and he was sure a fair number of other officers would have killed for such a post – though he was just as sure that an equal number of officers would rather have died than accept such a post. Serving as an aide to a member of the CEGA Council was normally a clear sign that one's career was moving in the right direction indeed. Quite a few Admirals had once served as an assistant to a Councilor before attaining their flag rank. And after that, one could always stand for election into the CEGA Council and become a Councilor as well.

But Alvin wasn't really rejoicing at the possibility of the dizzying heights he could reach as he sped across the face of the Earth at twice the speed of sound. In fact, now that he actually thought about it, there was more to worry about that to be really happy about. Of the forty Councilors that he could possibly have been assigned to, it _had_ to be Ignatius Chang.

It wasn't that Alvin had anything against the man. In fact, he was a well-known and well-respected figure as Councilors went. A Singapore-born general of great renown during the Unification Wars prior to the formation of the CEGA, Chang's strategic prowess saw him fighting the North American and European forces to a bloody stalemate which prompted the resumption of peace talks and the Jerusalem Accords.

When the CEGA was formed without the membership of the Asian nations (who demanded independence as part of the peace agreement), Chang transferred to the CEGA Armed Forces before working his way into the CEGA Council in an effort to moderate CEGA's imperialism. Since then, a few other citizens of the Non-aligned States have followed his example. Alvin had understood Chang's dream and embraced the same vision that the Councilor had.

Yet noble and altruistic as his intentions may have been, Ignatius Chang possessed one great 'flaw', if that was what it could be called. He was a peace-loving man sitting in a ruling council of former military men and women, many who either believed it was Earth's manifest destiny as the cradle of humanity to either rule the Solar System, or at least lead mankind in its march forward into the future.

That didn't mean that Chang was a pacifist, his career in the Asian military followed by that in the CEGA Armed Forces was certainly evidence of his ability to make war. But his views certainly ran counter to that of many other Councilors, resulting in the formation of the Unificationist faction in the CEGA Council which spent most of its time serving to hold the Loyalist and Imperialist factions in check. It was his 'obstruction' of militaristic CEGA foreign policies and his vocal denunciations of Venusian involvement in CEGA Council affairs certainly made him unpopular with his peers and there had been no shortage of attempts on his life.

It was that last bit that made Alvin somewhat nervous. Certainly, as an officer in the CEGA Navy, he was accustomed to the idea of death - those of his peers as well as his own. But as an exo-armor pilot, he was pretty sure that his death would be quick and sudden, all manners of which would occur in the honorable field of battle. And when it was time for his ticket to be punched, he was very sure he'd be going down fighting.

But as an assistant to a rather unpopular Councilor for whom assassination was a frequent threat, Alvin knew he could die a myriad variety of new ways - some of them without him having a fighting chance, many of them less than pretty.

And there was the other thing about Singapore's most infamous son that was rather discomforting . . .

"Five-one-four, this is Gaia, you're entering the pattern now. Reduce speed and descend to one thousand meters." There was a nervous edge to the flight controller's voice. "Five-one-four, do you copy?"

"Ah, affirmative, Gaia. Five-one-four copies. Reducing speed now and descending to one thousand meters now." Alvin acknowledged as he pulled back the throttle lever and watched as his speed began to drop off. A quick glance at the chronometer told him that atmospheric conditions had been favorable and he had made the four-hundred-kilometer flight in slightly under ten minutes. "Looks like I'm early, Gaia. Requesting landing clearance now."

There was a pause. Alvin secretly felt sorry for causing this particular flight controller so much trouble. Then the woman on the other end finally spoke. "Five-one-four, the pattern is clear but I need you to reduce speed before I can clear you."

Alvin decided to pull the flight controller's leg a little and replied in jest, "How slow do you need me to go? I've spent a little too long flying in space as it is, Gaia, so this is what I'd consider slow."

"Anything below supersonic would be nice, Five-one-four." Surprisingly, the controller replied with a chuckle. "Wouldn't like you blowing out any windows of terrorizing the local populace on the way in."

Alvin laughed at the thought of screaming over Gaia City at the speed of sound and wondered how the people living outside the domed acrology would take to the thunderous sonic boom that would mark his passing. It may have been something that he would have done in his younger days as a budding fighter pilot, but those days had long passed after his experience in the harsh environs of space. Pulling his throttle back even further, he heard the noise of his engines fade away to gentle whine.

He was low enough to make out the whitecaps of the waves beneath him and the West coast of North America was finally visible on the horizon. Manipulating the speed brakes and spoilers on his fighter, he shed even more speed, keeping at it until the immense domes of the Gaia and Boston acrologies came into view.

Satisfied that he was now traveling forward at what he believed was a more manageable speed, he called up Gaia TCC. "Gaia TC, this is _Gnome_ Five-one-four, requesting landing clearance."

"Affirmative, Five-one-four, the pattern is clear. Come to zero-five-zero and descend to five hundred to enter the circuit."

"Roger that, coming to zero-five-zero now." Alvin replied as he shifted the stick slightly and watched the heading ticker on his HUD scrolling as he took on the new heading.

"Five-one-four, we have a fourteen-mile crosswind gusting from the North, no cloud cover." The controller recited with practiced ease. "Great day for flying."

"Copy that." Alvin nodded as he reached out to flick the landing gear toggles. There was a deep mechanical whine ending with a slight bump as his landing gear locked in the 'down' position. "Gaia, I have my landing gear down."

"Roger, Five-one-four, come to zero-one-zero for final approach on Runway One-One."

"Affirmative, Five-one-four commencing final approach." Alvin shifted the stick again and gasped at the sight of Gaia City passing across his fighter's nose. Only here, descending from five hundred meters at a distance of just ten kilometers away from the twin domes of Gaia and Boston, did he realize just how immense the acrologies were.

_Of course they're huge_, he reminded himself. Gaia City itself was home to 115 million residents living within a thousand square kilometers sheltered by the stupendous acrology dome. Sitting north of it was Boston Dome, home to yet another 60 million more. And all that excluded those who lived in the slums surrounding the domes, too poor to afford a living within the controlled environments of the acrologies. Nowhere else in the history of mankind did such an enormous urban community exist.

Then the city slid of to the periphery of his vision and Runway One-One came into view. Normally used for transorbital trips made by shuttles and the more massive spaceplanes such as the L200 _Hermes_, the runway was a wide tract of asphalt tarmac that stretched across at least three kilometers in length. It was hard to tell, since as immense as this one runway may have been, it was still dwarfed by the immense city that it served.

Working several more buttons on his flight controls, he deployed the aircraft's flaps, a procedure he had almost forgotten in the years he had spent flying in the airless void. The runway was beginning to rise up to meet him now and he noted that he was aligned perfectly for landing. Years of precision flying in space had paid off.

"Gaia Control, this is Five-one-four, touching down." He pulled back slightly on the stick so that the _Gnome_'s nose was pointing at the sky once more despite its continued downward motion. There was a moment of hesitation as the _Gnome_ struggled against the force of gravity to take off in the direction where its nose was pointing. It was almost as if the old fighter was reluctant to return to the ground.

Then pulling back the throttle once more, the machine finally gave up and Alvin felt the main landing gear making contact with the ground. A heartbeat later, the nosewheel followed as the _Gnome_ flattened out on the runway, losing speed to friction as it rolled down the runway.

"Five-one-four, welcome to Gaia. Local temperature is at a cool eighteen degrees with clear weather expected for the rest of the day." The flight controller announced.

"Thank you, Gaia."

"Proceed to the Military Terminal via Exit Delta-Two."

"I see it." Alvin replied as the fighter rolled to a near-halt and he began to turn off the runway and onto the taxiway that led to the Military Terminal. "Thanks for everything, Gaia."

"Don't mention it, Five-one-four. Gaia out."

As he entered the large area allotted to Gaia's military arrivals, he slowed down even further. After all, he didn't want to collide with any one of the dozens of _Wraiths_, _Gnomes_ and shuttles lined up in neat rows. A man in CEGA Army fatigues strode up to his fighter as it crawled into the flightline, waving vigorously to him to follow.

It took another five minutes to get to his assigned slot amidst so many other combat craft. Then, having shut down most of the onboard systems, he popped open the canopy and gratefully climbed down the access ladder put in place by the ground crew.

He removed his helmet as soon as his two feet were on the ground and he took his first breath of natural air in years. He was disappointed. The air in the orbital bases and ships he had served on seem better. One of the technicians came up to him, lifting the visor on his helmet as he did so. "I wouldn't recommend you stand out here without your helmet for too long, sir."

Alvin nodded. Even after decades of reconstruction efforts, the Earth's biosphere was still in a sad state after the cataclysmic events of the Fall. Many areas had been rendered uninhabitable due to residual radiation, untreated chemicals or unchecked biotoxins. And even here in Gaia . . . _No, outside Gaia_, he corrected himself. It still wasn't a good idea to go walking around for extended periods of time unprotected.

"Let's get started with the post-flight then." Alvin gestured to the _Gnome_ that he had just arrived in.

"That won't be necessary, sir." The tech held up a hand. "Someone is already waiting for you in the Arrival Lounge. I suggest you get going, sir."

Alvin shrugged, replaced his helmet, picked up his flight bag from the storage compartment and strode off in the direction of the massive facade of the Military Terminal. Flanking the entrance to the massive building was a pair of _Wyvern Trop_ exo-armors. Alvin noted the ground-fighting modifications as he passed them then entered the Decontamination Chambers where he was attended to with amazing promptness before being ushered to the Arrival Lounge in the slightly uniform he had managed to stuff into his bag. His eyes scanned the room as he entered, wondering if he would have to announce his identity in order to find out who was supposedly awaiting his arrival.

He didn't have to.

"I see you couldn't quite wait to get here." Alvin froze when he saw the man rising from the chair in front of him.

Councilor Ignatius Chang extended his hand. "I trust you had a pleasant flight?"

"I . . . yes. Indeed, Councilor." Alvin half-bowed as he shook Chang's hand.

"I apologize that my niece is not here to meet you today." The Councilor said with genuine emotion. "Last I heard, she was still stuck on Goliath."

Alvin's features colored at the Councilor's comments. This was the other reason that this assignment was going to be awkward. "Councilor, I did not think that . . ."

"That I would know? Oh, but I _do_ know, Commander." Chang smiled slightly, harmlessly. "I am her _uncle_, after all."

"It wasn't my expectation or intention to . . ."

"Of course not." The Councilor's smile grew wider. "It wasn't your primary expectation. I certainly wouldn't have picked you if that were the case. That you know my niece is simply a coincidence. It is nothing to be ashamed of. You are still young and thankfully do not have the ability to mask your thoughts and emotions the way far too many Councilors can."

"Sir, I am honored to have this assignment." Alvin said, desperate to change the subject.

"Though you would certainly prefer an exo squadron command." Chang replied flatly and Alvin flinched. "Do not look so surprised. I was once a warrior like you."

"The esteemed Councilor is most knowledgeable." Alvin said formally in reverence, half-bowing again.

"Oh, please do _stop_ that, Alvin." Chang smiled. "After all, you are my aide now. And I can't afford to surround myself with yes-men and groveling peons like some of the other Councilors. It'd just waste too much time.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"There's no need to be." Chang said reassuringly. "Come, I have a car waiting."

"Yes, sir." Alvin said woodenly as he picked up his bag.

"Oh, by the way, Kallie sends her love and regards."

Again, Alvin flushed at the mention of his girlfriend, who by cosmic coincidence had happened to be the Councilor's niece.

"Come on, man!" Chang said enthusiastically, still smiling. "Don't just stand there! We have wars to stop, conspiracies to uncover and Venusians to keep out of the Council! And I'd like to get started right away!"

"Yes, sir." Fumbling with his bag, Alvin followed after the Councilor who was already halfway to the lounge exit.

"Oh, and welcome to Gaia City, Alvin." Ignatius Chang said, without turning. "May you find your time here more pleasant than mine."


	4. 004 Oath of Allegiance

**OATH OF ALLEGIANCE**

_**A young man who does not have what it takes to perform military service is not likely to have what it takes to make a living.**_

-President John F. Kennedy-

**15 NOVEMBER 2212**

**KHANNAN STATION, OLYMPUS**

**JOVIAN CONFEDERATION**

It was only her fifth hour in the JAF and Breanna Chan was already _hating_ it. Neither the years spent touring the Solar System with IGS nor working at the Tiananmen National Spaceport had prepared her for the discipline now being enforced upon her. However, she still understood the need to follow rules and regulations. After all, one did not survive in space without learning the most fundamental of rules of survival.

But it was her instructors' preoccupation with posture in formation, displays of respect, and immediate compliance in the absence of explanation that was slowly driving her insane. She also realized that standing in formation seemed to be a popular pastime and she learnt earlier on that 'dressing' in the military sense, had nothing to do with fashion.

This was not the free, adventurous lifestyle that the ads had boasted about. This was not the impression she had of the exo and fighter pilots who were the darlings of the Jovian media. _Aren't they all supposed to be a somewhat exciting bunch of hellraisers_? And here she was, being treated like a mindless automaton of the Martian Federation. _It wasn't even this bad with mom and dad_, she thought ruefully.

A part of her wondered if she ought to just pack up and head home and admit she was wrong. _Impossible_, _of course_. Not only because she had reported for duty, but she'd rather die than admit she was wrong.

Second Platoon was waiting in formation outside the Quartermaster's Store now. First Platoon was already inside, collecting their standard issue kit from mean-faced quartermaster assistants, harassed all they way by Sergeant Major Kruger and his cronies. They had all left their civilian gear back in the barracks, which was a relief. While her bag wasn't particularly hard to move around, she was glad that John had been relieved of his bulging duffel.

Right now though, the novelty of receiving her personal equipment was beginning to wear off as she stood in formation waiting for her platoon's turn. She simply wished First Platoon would just hurry up. She was getting tired of standing around and doing nothing.

Her mind was just about to wander when one of the instructors came round again, snarling at a couple of recruits who supposedly weren't standing straight enough. She was becoming convinced that the instructors were psychic, arriving just when they were all on the verge of spacing out.

Darting a sidelong glance towards the source of the commotion - a skill she had rapidly developed over the past few hours - Breanna recognized the newly-arrived marauder as Sergeant Pulver. She had come to hate the man in the short time that she had known him. She despised his smugness and his temper, even though she knew it wasn't really his fault for picking on her. After all, she had played a part, albeit a very small one, in delaying the formation of the platoon. That must have earned him a chewing out by the platoon commander.

To Breanna, that didn't justify him going around taking it out on the platoon though he certainly didn't agree with her or much less cared what she thought for that matter. Still, Breanna didn't think it was entirely her fault she was late and thus the extra attention from Pulver wasn't warranted. At least in her book.

Not that Sergeant Pulver gavea damn. He was coming down the line, harassing First and Second Squad, chewing out one of the recruits for slouching. If she despised Pulver, then John was quite the opposite. Directing her glance to the man on her left, she could see that his knuckles were white.

Seeking to make amends for his earlier mistakes, John had made the blunder of assuming that Sergeant Pulver would be more sympathetic, 'because he looks like the nice type compared to Kruger' to quote the man.

Breanna had wished she had a camera with her to capture the crestfallen look on John's face when Pulver had sent a scathing torrent of invective right at John after he had tried to get friendly. That would explain why he wasn't exactly the most popular member of Second Platoon. In one of the rare moments that they weren't in formation, John had ruefully remarked that he had never been yelled at so much in his entire life. That would explain why John was terrified of Pulver as he stalked towards Third Squad.

Breanna's eyes shifted from John to the rest of Third Squad. That had been precious little time for interaction so far. Standing on her immediate right was Recruit Joshua Deleon, a tall lanky man from Schwarzwald here in Olympus, who still managed to look aloof despite standing at parade rest.

"Cheah!" Pulver was right next to her now and she could hear the John's sharp intake of breath. "What are you supposed to be doing now?"

"Uh, I . . . I don't know . . . Sergeant . . ." John stammered looking to around for someone to give him a clue. "Nothing, I suppose . . ."

"_Nothing_?" Pulver exclaimed. Breanna was very sure the instructor went purple with rage for a moment. "_Nothing_? You think that's what we do in the JAF? _Nothing_?"

"Uh . . . n-no, Sergeant." Beads of sweat began to roll down the sides of John's face as he desperately looked around for assistance.

"Look at _me_ when I'm talking to you, maggot!" Pulver snarled.

"S-Sorry, Sergeant!" John's head snapped forward in a flash. "I-I didn't think . . ."

"That's just it, you didn't think." Pulver said sardonically as he shook his head. "I doubt if any of you are capable of that!"

"Sergeant . . ."

"Time's up, maggot! You're supposed to be standing at parade rest! That still means your stomach in and your chest out!" As if for emphasis, Pulver slapped John in the belly with an open palm and the man keeled over, gasping for air. "What's your first name, Cheah?"

"John . . ." the stricken recruit wheezed.

"John? Sounds like some rich kid's name to me! You some kind of big shot, John?"

"N-no, Sergeant!" John said, finally regaining his composure though his face was still flushed.

"Bullshit! I don't like the name 'John'. Only wimps and prissy little rich brats are called that!" Pulver went on, eyes continuing to bore into John's. "From now on, you'll be Recruit Bigshot! Do you like that name, Recruit Bigshot?"

"I don't think . . ."

"I don't care what you think, Recruit Bigshot! Or what any of you think for that matter!" Pulver stepped away from John so as to face the whole platoon. The several extra inches of distance away from Breanna were palpable. "If you turds leave my base, if you somehow survive recruit training, you will be a soldier. You will be a member of the elite JAF. But until that day you are scum. You are the lowest form of life in the Solar System. You are worse than the Earther shit scraping a living outside the acrologies or the mindless robots of the Martian Federation. You are not even humans. You are nothing but an unorganized mass of shit! I will be hard, but I will be fair! And because I will be both, you will not like me! But the more you hate me the more you will learn!"

Breanna had to suppress a gasp. This was the most the Sergeant had managed to say in one go since they had the misfortune of meeting him. Perhaps this was the infamous 'pep talk' that every recruit would finally have to go through as a rite of passage.

"I wanna make it clear that I don't discriminate between you boys and gals. I don't care whether you're a spoilt little shit like Recruit Bigshot here or a damn turd-hugging farmer from Zagadka! Right here, in my base, in this platoon, you are all equally worthless! And my job is to weed out all quitters and poseurs who haven't got what it takes to serve in my beloved JAF. Do you stinking pukes understand that?"

"Yes, Sergeant!" Breanna found herself adding her voice to the automatic response that came from the platoon.

"To think this could happen to me." Pulver's tone had softened and he looked like he was about to cry. "You are insignificant piles gutter slime, not even fit to contaminate the colony waste compactors with your pathetic presence! No, that's wrong. Damn it, you scumbags shouldn't even be breathing my air!"

"Takes one to know one." Someone mumbled from Breanna's right, a mere whisper compared to the instructor's roar. But it had come in a moment of silence and Breanna was sure Pulver had heard and she couldn't quite stop her jaw from falling open at that remark.

"Who said that?" Pulver's whirled in her direction, black eyes like burning coals boring into Breanna and she flinched involuntarily from his gaze.

The silence following Pulver's demand was deafening.

"_Who the hell said that_?" Pulver exploded again as he stepped forward and Breanna cringed inwardly. "Who's the little piss-sucking, shit-sniffing, turd-eating, lily-livered, hog-faced, numbskull down here who's just begging for a death warrant?"

Again, there was absolute silence.

"Nobody, huh? The bleeding Prime Minister of the Martian Federation said it! Huh?" The furious Sergeant was pacing up and down now, scrutinizing each face. "You little scumbags! I will make you run till you all bloody _die_! I'll make you do push-ups till your scrawny little arms fall out of their freaking sockets!"

Breanna felt the sudden urge to turn around and run away as his gaze fell upon her. He took a step towards her and her mind went blank with pure, unadulterated fear. And then he was past her, reaching out with his thick arm to grab the collar of Recruit Daniel Lacombe, the puny son of a researcher at the Jovian Natural and Physical Sciences Institute at Heorot colony cylinder in the Trojan State of Newhome. Breanna could see her pint-sized squadmate's eyes going wide with shock and horror. "Was it _you_, you little shit, huh?"

"N-no, Sergeant!" Breanna could see the recruit wanting to scream something else in protest but he simply couldn't muster the strength or courage. Breanna couldn't blame him for that.

"You little piece of dung, you look like a helpless little worm! I'll bet it was you!"

"No, Sergeant!" That was all Lacombe could scream in response as he shut his eyes as if hoping that the Sergeant would just disappear.

Someone stifled a chuckle and it took all of Breanna's willpower to keep her eyes focused on same spot on the second floor of the Quartermaster's Store. Pulver, who wasn't under those same restrictions, was on the hapless culprit in a flash. Whoever it was had just saved Lacombe by inviting the Sergeant's wrath upon himself and signing his own death warrant. It turned out to be another member of Third Squad. "You think this is funny, Recruit Szofran?"

"N-no . . ." Recruit Reuben Szofran was the son of agricultural workers from the aforementioned agricultural colony of Zagadka, which was home to the most diverse eco-system beyond the limits of the asteroid belt. The medium-built man was the closest thing to a country yokel (if such a thing could ever exist in the Jovian Confederation). He had expressed his awe as well as his claustrophobia at the heavily-urbanized nature of Khannan Station in an all-too-honest manner that smacked of innocence and ignorance that could only be found in someone who hadn't grown up in high-tech environments that most of the other recruits had come from.

"No _what_? Speak up and sound off, scumbucket! I can hardly hear you squeaking!" Pulver bellowed.

"No, Sergeant!" Szofran replied in a slightly stronger voice. But there was still an almost childish giggle which he was desperately trying suppress.

"Do you think I'm cute, Szofran? Do you think I'm funny?" Pulver leaned close to the man so that he was almost whispering in confidence.

"N-no, Sergeant!"

"Then wipe that sick, ugly grin off your face!" Pulver bellowed into Szofran's ear and the farmboy recoiled, held back in position by the instructor's iron grip.

"Y-yes, S-sergeant . . ." Szofran was trying, he really was. But Breanna could see that he was failing miserably.

"Anytime you feel you're bloody ready, you faggot!"

"I'm really trying, Sergeant!" Szofran whined in panic.

"Recruit Reuben Szofran, I am going to give you till the count of three, alright? Three full seconds to get that stupid, disgusting smirk off your face or I will start to rip bits off your face and piss into the holes left behind!" Pulver was shaking the boy from Zagadka. "One. . .! Two. . . !"

"Sergeant! _Please_! I can't help it, Sergeant!" Szofran looked as if he was crying, despite the fact that the corners of his mouth were still curved upwards.

"_Nonsense_, you useless piece of shit! Get on your knees!" Pulver yelled as he twisted Szofran's arm backwards at an awkward angle and the recruit dropped his knees onto the deck with a loud clang and he left out an agonized yelp. Breanna winced, wanting to look away yet finding herself unable too. "You're not even good enough to use as target practice for the Earthers! I'll bet it was you who made that cowardly remark now, wasn't it!"

"No . . . Sergeant . . ." Szofran's voice was taut and Breanna could tell that the pain was excruciating.

"Bullshit! You don't sound convincing enough to me!" The Sergeant shook his head and applied more pressure. "Scum like you don't even deserve to _live_!"

"It . . . really . . . wasn't . . . me . . . Sergeant! Honest . . ." Szofran howled, a solitary tear sliding down his cheek.

"You are just pathetic! Why, I ought to just toss you out the damn airlock!"

"Sergeant! I said it, Sergeant!" Joshua Deleon said from beside Breanna.

"Well, really now . . ." Pulver purred, releasing Szofran abruptly, allowing him to drop onto the ground before stalking over to the man who still stood nonchalantly as the Sergeant's tone took on a softer by far more sinister quality. "What have we here, a self-proclaimed entertainer! Recruit Deleon, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sergeant." Deleon drawled, seemingly unperturbed by the proximity of the Sergeant.

"Well, I've got to say, I admire your honesty, you little scumsucker." Pulver was nodding to himself as he looked up at the taller recruit. "Hell, I could even like you, Deleon."

Out the corner of her eye, Breanna could see the ghost of a smug-looking smile playing across Deleon's features.

"I should make you the Recruit Platoon Leader." Pulver was nodded indulgently to himself and Deleon's smile grew a little wider. "Hell, I should just give you an instructor's baton just like mine. _Here_!" Without warning, the Sergeant's hand flashed out and the metal baton buried itself into Deleon's gut.

Deleon tumbled unceremoniously onto the ground with a grunt. Pulver gripped the recruit's collar and pulled him up to chest level so he could scream into his ear. "You spineless snotball! I have _your_ name, I have _your_ ass! You will not joke, you will not laugh, you _will_ respect my authority! Because your I _own_ your ass! Now get up, Deleon! Get off your face! You had better get with the program or I'll be right here to open up that skull of yours and shit into the empty space up there!"

"You . . . struck . . . me . . ." Deleon gasped as he returned to his feet. The cool demeanor had vanished.

"That's horsecrap, Recruit." Pulver replied smugly. "You just walked into my baton. Heaven knows why you were moving while standing at parade rest. You ought to be glad you didn't dent my baton."

"You can't do that! I have rights!"

"Can't this and can't that." Pulver added a whiny tone to his mimicry of Deleon's complaint as he released the recruit. "You are scum! Each and every one of you! What makes you think you should be special, Deleon?"

Deleon growled and swore under his breath, his hands balling into fists.

"What? You said something?" Pulver cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Deleon as he taunted the recruit. "You got something to say to _me_, Recruit Dumbass?"

"No, Sergeant . . ." Deleon grated. Breanna felt herself tensing up. She could almost picture Deleon reaching out to strike back at the Sergeant.

"_Really_? Don't sound like it, Dumbass." Pulver eyed Deleon with a critical eye. "What's the matter now? Lost your voice? I thought you were the comedian? Go on and tell us all another joke, will you?"

"I'm going to make sure your superiors hear about this . . ." Deleon managed to say with supreme effort.

"Oh, ho? Is that your idea of a joke? Or is that a threat?" Pulver guffawed and shook his head. "Why did you inflict your putrid, worthless existence on my beloved JAF, Recruit Dumbass?"

"I want to be an exo-pilot, Sergeant!" Deleon replied with a fierce sense of pride.

"Well, so do half of our society's failures and rejects, Dumbass. Hell, you've got a whole platoon of them standing around you for company." Pulver stepped close to Deleon once more. "Question is, what makes you think you're good enough to soil one of those magnificent machines with your filthy hind?"

Breanna was almost sure she saw something snap in her fellow squadmate. He took a threatening step forward. "Oh, I've got what it takes, Sergeant. At least I know I won't end up in some stinking shithole like this with a dead-end assignment bullying recruits just because I can't get respect elsewhere."

That seemed to have touched something inside Pulver and Breanna thought she caught a glimpse of something dangerous flashing in Pulver's eyes. "You wanna prove it, you bloated gasbag? Or are you just going to keep on squealing all day?"

"I'm not stupid, Sergeant." Deleon stepped back with great restraint. "I'm not going to fight with a superior."

Pulver studied Deleon for a moment then unsealed his uniform tunic, pulling it off and tossing it onto the floor. The baton landed amidst the discarded uniform and the Sergeant stood with arms akimbo. "Alright, Dumbass. I'm not your superior now. Right now, it's just man to man. You and me."

"This is crazy . . ."

"What? You scared, Dumbass?" Pulver taunted. "Frightened you might 'harm' your superior? Or perhaps you're afraid you'd chip a nail?"

"No, Sergeant. This is just stupid." Deleon tried to shrug coolly though he took a step backwards.

"You know, if there's one thing I hate more than pukes disrespecting me, it's non-hackers who can't walk the talk." Pulver stepped into the void next to Breanna and thrust his face into close range with the offending recruit. "I'm not your Sergeant now. I'm a nobody just like you. A nobody who's just called you a coward! Now what are you going to do about it?"

"I won't strike first, Sergeant . . ." Deleon replied as he drew himself to full height so that the Sergeant was staring at his chin.

"Who said anything about letting you strike first?" Pulver said as he slapped Deleon across the cheek so hard that the recruit's head snapped to one side with a resounding crack. "There's your provocation, you useless ball of sludge! Now defend yourself!"

Breanna heard Deleon roar with fury as he hurled himself at the Sergeant, arms flailing. She didn't quite see what happened next since it happened so fast. One moment he was flying at the Sergeant with a war cry and then Pulver had somehow stepped past the wildly swinging limps, thumping his fist like a cannonball into the recruit's belly. And then the Sergeant lifted Deleon over his head and sent him crashing into the ground in front of the platoon.

"Bastard!" Deleon screamed, obviously in pain.

"You leave my mother out of this!" Pulver yelled, gripping Deleon's hair and pounding his face into the ground. The blow must have knocked the recruit out since he didn't say anything more or put up any more struggle.

"Anyone else wants to play hero?" Pulver asked as he drew himself erect once more, slipping his arms through the sleeves of his tunic, then his eye rested on Breanna, the only woman in Third Squad. "Or heroine, perhaps?"

No one answered. Breanna heard John gulp.

"What was that? I can't hear you, Second Platoon! Sound off!"

"No, Sergeant!" They all chorused. All except Joshua Deleon, of course.

"What's going on here, Sergeant Pulver?" It was Lieutenant Vygotsky, Second Platoon's commander who spoke as he stepped through the door that led into the Quartermaster's Store.

"Some of these recruits needed a bit of discipline to get adjusted to military life, sir." Pulver said as he saluted the platoon commander. "I was just helping them get settled in, sir."

"As usual, huh?" Breanna thought she saw Vygotsky smile slightly. "Very well. First Platoon is done with kit collection. See to it that our people get their kit, Sergeant."

"Very well, sir!" Pulver answered crisply. "Second Platoon, you heard the Lieutenant. By order of squads, proceed to collect your kit. Move! Lacombe, Szofran, pick that pile of excrement of the ground and wake him up!"

Immediately, the two recruits complied, reaching out to pull the comatose form of Joshua Deleon to his feet and joined the rest of Second Platoon as it went to collect its gear.

It took all of another two hours to collect their kit and learn the manner in which they were to wear their uniforms. Pulver had been exacting in his standards and Breanna had resolved never to fuss about fashion ever again.

Once they had all achieved Pulver's minimum standards, they were all marched to an auditorium where they were organized into platoons. There, the Company Commander formally welcomed them into the JAF and gave a short pep talk, expressing his desire for the recruits to work hard and give their best in their training. And then he handed the time over to Sergeant Major Kruger.

"I trust none of you had too much trouble fitting in." The Sergeant Major smiled ironically. "Don't worry if you find it hard, this is only Day One. You have three more months with us to work on it."

Breanna groaned inwardly. She didn't need to be reminded of that.

"As most of you are aware, you are still civilians in uniforms or worse, depending on the vocabularies of your respective instructors." Kruger obviously relished the fact that no one was even supposed to smile at his comment. "But that changes now. After this, that uniform will stand for something. After this, you will no longer be a civilian."

_This is it_, Breanna thought. There would be no turning back now. There wasn't any opportunity even if she had wanted to.

"Comp-nee ten-_shun_!" Two hundred recruits came to attention at the Sergeant Major's command. On the screen behind him came the words of the Jovian Armed Forces Oath of Allegiance. "Raise your right hand!"

Breanna felt her hand coming up. Next to her, she saw John's own hand coming up. Next to him were Lacombe, Szofran and Deleon.

"I," The Sergeant Major barked and the recruits chorused in reply. "State your own name"

"Breanna Chan." She mumbled but her murmured name was lost amidst the sound of one hundred and ninety-nine others doing the same thing.

"Being of legal age, of my own free will, without coercion, promise or inducement," Kruger went on once the clamor ceased.

She repeated each word, feeling a sickening sensation rising within her.

"After having been duly warned and advised of the meaning and consequences of this oath," Kruger paused as the recruits repeated after him. "Do now enlist in the Armed Forces of the Jovian Confederation."

_What the hell am I doing_? Breanna would have shaken herself if it wasn't for Pulver who had directed his gaze in Third Squad's direction.

"I do solemnly swear that I will uphold and defend the Constitution of the Jovian Confederation, against all enemies, foreign and domestic," Kruger went on and Breanna found herself wondering if she would ever have to do that - if she would ever have to fight any one of the other Solar Nations, or worse, her own countrymen.

"That I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same." Kruger wasn't letting her have the luxury of time to pursue that train of thought. "That I will carry out lawful duties of any nature as may be assigned to me by lawful, direct or delegated authority and to obey all lawful orders of the President, Commanders and Officers of the Jovian Armed Forces or any delegated persons placed over me."

_God, I'm really doing this_ . . . Breanna found herself strangely detached. As if the voice coming from her mouth wasn't hers. She could see that it was indeed a solemn moment for the other recruits. It was with this oath that they would become part of the JAF, the Confederation's defense against all enemies. A duty that demanded their sweat and toil, perhaps their blood and even their lives.

"And to require such obedience from all other members of the service or persons being placed under my orders." Kruger paused as if for dramatic effect as the recruits finished that line. He looked at the assembled faces and nodded. "To the vigorous and valorous pursuit of all these, I pledge to preserve the honor of the Armed Forces, being vigilant and diligent in the discharge of my duties by dedicating my effort, energy and if necessary, my life."

" To the vigorous and valorous pursuit of all these, I pledge to preserve the honor of the Armed Forces, being vigilant and diligent in the discharge of my duties by dedicating my effort, energy and if necessary, my life." Breanna couldn't help closing her eyes. This was it. She had just signed her life over to the JAF. From this day forth, she would no longer be a civilian.

"That is all. Dismissed." Kruger said quietly. "Instructors, attend to your recruits."

And then Sergeant Pulver came swaggering up to them, baton clench firmly under his arm. There was a grin on his face that she didn't like at all. "Okay, you pukes! You heard the Sergeant Major. Move your asses! God help you, you're in the JAF now!"


	5. 005 Like Old Times

**LIKE OLD TIMES**

_**No man is worth his salt who is not ready at all times to risk his body, to risk his well being, to risk his life, in a great cause.**_

-Theodore Roosevelt-

**17 NOVEMBER 2212**

**KHANNAN STATION, OLYMPUS**

**JOVIAN CONFEDERATION**

To the uninitiated, the noise in the exo-armor hangars would have been discomforting if not outright deafening. Despite the relative dormancy of the humanoid leviathans standing in their respective maintenance bays, the rest of the hangar was a veritable hive of activity.

It was the kind of environment where one would do well to stick to the assigned flow of traffic, designated by deck markings unless one preferred to tempt an unpleasant fate in the form of a painful collision with another human being or a messy death from a run-in with a heavily-burdened exo-skeleton.

Amidst the whine and screech of machinery, techs and support crews yelled at one another to be heard, sometimes inserting a choice expletives to drive home a particular salient point. Sparks cascaded down from where welding crews sought to rectify the effects of particle erosion on the armored skins of the exo-armors. Occasionally, the sparks would dance spectacularly but harmlessly off a nearby surface onto the techs and pilots moving near the metal-shod feet of the exo-armors.

Here and there, exo-armors would be marching down the thoroughfares, either on their way to the launch bay or back to their alcoves after returning from a flight. People kept clear whenever one of those massive war machines was on the move. No one wanted to be on the wrong end of so many tons of unyielding machinery.

It was a chaotic environment. It was a dangerous routine. And it was an everyday occurrence.

Just the way Warrant Officer Adelene Chan liked it.

Diminutive in frame and stature, Adelene more than made up for it small size with her ardent and vivacious nature and her brutal honesty. While she may have been slight compared to many of her JAF colleagues who towered over her, she carried herself with an air of undeniable authority and fiery energy and the enlisted techs who gave way to her needn't look at her rank tabs to know that she was an officer.

She wore her hair in short but untied, so that it puffed up slightly into an unruly mess while in zero-gravity. It was something that occasionally earned the displeasure of her superiors and the rarer remarks expressing doubt about her gender from some of her brave male counterparts - most who learnt never to do it again through some form of painful retribution.

She may have been puny compared to the male exo-jocks, but she had her own advantages which she exploited ruthlessly both in and out of the cockpit, namely preternatural speed and a vice-like tenacity, often evidenced through a very painful pinch.

But there was no need for ego games with her male comrades today. There was no need for violence to spring forth from her hands to visit anyone who might have had the nerve to joke about her appearance. All was peaceful, as peaceful as it could get in a hangar at least, as she glided through the main thoroughfares of the exo hangar today.

This facility was just one of many scattered around Khannan Station, each one capable of housing an entire wing's worth of exo-armors or interceptors. Such redundancy meant quicker launch times and a resilience to crippling damage should the station ever come under attack.

_An entire wing_! That amounted to forty-eight of the most powerful combat craft ever made! _And all that in just one hangar_. Adelene found herself growing dizzy with the thought of it. Back at her previous assignment on Solomon Base, the hangar was never home to more than twenty-eight vehicles, of which at most twenty of those were the mighty exo-armors. And this hangar she was in was not even home to a resident exo-armor unit on Khannan but served rather as a transfer and ferry point for visiting exos as well as those pending transfer to other units.

Today, as she made her way through the hangar, she was like the proverbial kid in the candy store. During her time with the Black Cats at Solomon Base, the composite aggressor squadron tasked with mimicking CEGA tactics, she had only seen the primary configurations of the _Retaliator_, _Pathfinder_ and _Hector_ exo-armors. And having been trained first as an interceptor pilot, she counted herself lucky that she had been allowed to learn how to pilot the _Pathfinder_ and its legless cousin, the _Hector_.

But here, on Khannan Station, roost of the vaunted Gamma Division, there was no shortage of any type of exo and Adelene took her time to admire the awesome machines housed within each cubicle. It was almost like a game to her, guessing in her mind what model would be next before peering into maintenance alcove. Each one left her smiling to herself though no one had yet dared to ask her why.

Every common model in use with the JAF was represented within this hangar, along with several rarer units. There were quite a few of the ubiquitous EAL-04A _Pathfinders_, appearing mainly in the _Alpha_ configurations and an odd RC Recon and ST Sniper Type here and there. There were also many of the familiar EAM-03A _Retaliator Alphas_, considered by many to be a machine that blended speed, firepower and protection seamlessly into a consummate fighting machine.

And then there were the heavily-armed EAH-1A _Vindicators_, the ultimate assault units that were in common service. There was also a single _Hector_, the familiar legless cousin of the _Pathfinder_ which she had piloted numerous times to simulate the CEGA _Syreen_ exo-armor. There was even a single example each of the _Mentor_ training exo-armor and its combat variant, the _Sensei_. Amour-clad gods of war, standing dormant with their open cockpit hatches gaping invitingly, awaiting the arrival of a master.

Truly, this congregation of exo-armors was the dream of any exo pilot. _Any pilot in the Solar System, not just the Jovian Confederation_, Adelene reminded herself. The sight of such magnificent machinery reminded Adelene of how thankful she was for been for being born into the Jovian Confederation. She did not envy the Earthers or Venusians who would ever have the misfortune of finding themselves in the sights of any of those powerful machines. _As for the Martians_ . . . Adelene shook her head and chuckled sadly to herself. _What about them_?

Almost lost in her thoughts, she suddenly noticed the large, red numerals painted onto the sides of the exo bay she was walking by and drew up short. A tech who had been behind her did not quite managed to stop in time and their shoulders met with jarring force. But Adelene was too engrossed in her own thoughts today to make life difficult for anyone and she simply nodded at the tech's mumbled apology.

She consulted her standard-issue ILLegra-70 mobile computer for her craft assignment to ensure that she had gotten the right exo-bay. Glancing once more at the numerals on the bay walls, she knew she had finally arrived. Her gaze fell upon the bay's humanoid machine occupant and for the umpteenth time that day, she smiled. At nearly fifteen and half meters, the _Pathfinder_ exo-armor accentuated her height in a manner than nothing else could. But the greatest consolation was that this titan would confer its power, speed and height to her once she had assumed her rightful place as its master. Out there in space, at the controls of an exo-armor, Adelene would never have to worry about people making snide comments about her size.

Because she had originally been trained as a fighter pilot, Adelene had only one vehicle to her name in the past and that had been a _Lancer_ interceptor. And since the Black Cats would often switch machines in between missions, she had never got the chance to 'own' an exo-armor. Until now.

Painted in the standard JAF White and devoid of any markings save for it serial numbers and the usual warning symbols, the EAL-04A that stood before her looked like it was fresh from the factory floors of Jovian Armor Works. There were no signs of particle erosion or stains resulting from leaking hydraulic fluid to mar its cream-white surface. And she was sure that if she checked the nacelles on the backpack thrusters, they would be brand-new as well. In short, it was a machine in mint condition.

And more importantly still, it was _hers_.

Shaking herself out of her awed stupor, she stowed the mobile computer back in its place along her hip and took a step towards the machine that had been assigned to her. It was only then that she noticed additional whisker antennae protruding from the Pathfinder's head fairing, and the rifle-style Jovian Optics 792R Particle Cannon grasped in the machine's right hand.

This time, there was no stifling the excited squeal that left her throat and a Sergeant wearing a technician's suit turned to face her, distracted from her own mobile computer by the sudden noise behind her. The tall, athletic woman first looked down at Adelene's face, then further down at the flight helmet tucked under her arm before looking back at the pilot once more. Smiling slightly, she spoke in a rough, gravelly voice. "Officer Chan, I presume?"

"Yes." Adelene replied, nodding woodenly, trying not to stare at the machine standing behind the Sergeant. "Yes, that's me."

"Glad to hear it, ma'am." The Sergeant said respectfully despite the fact that she looked like she was twice as tall as the pilot and almost as wide, with all of it being well-toned muscle. It was clear from the aura of authority surrounding her that this Sergeant was the crew chief in charge of the other technicians swarming around the _Pathfinder_. "We are just about done prepping her up for launch."

"Is that a _Pathfinder_ CT?" Adelene asked breathlessly.

The Sergeant's features broke into a wide grin. "Sure is, ma'am. One EAL-04A _Pathfinder_ Command Type, Serial Number One-Five-Two-Seven-Six-Four-Delta, fueled and prepped to go! I must say, things are looking up for you to be assigned one of these babies!"

Adelene nodded wordlessly, staring over the Sergeant's shoulder and at the _Pathfinder_ CT. Incorporating communications gear, thruster systems and a particle cannon that were superior to those found on the standard _Pathfinder Alpha_, the Command Type was regularly issued to officers and ace pilots. To Adelene, it meant more speed and greater punch.

"Where . . ." She shook herself again and pried her eyes away from the exo to look at the Sergeant. "Where do I sign?"

"Right here, ma'am." The Sergeant was grinning at Adelene's expression as she handed over her mobile computer and electronic stylus.

It took Adelene several seconds to calm down sufficiently to understand what she was reading. Then satisfied that everything was in order, she initialed on the ILLegra-70's touchscreen with the stylus and passed both items back to the crew chief. "Is that all?"

The crew chief took a moment to check that everything was in order before she nodded conspiratorially at the pilot. "Yep, everything's in order, ma'am. Come on, let's go get you strapped in now, shall we?"

Adelene nodded and they bounced towards the feet of the _Pathfinder_ together. "Anything I should be aware of before I take her out?" Adelene asked, finally finding something more creative to say about her assigned machine.

"Nothing really. The logs are clean." The crew chief said as they reached the _Pathfinder's_ feet. She held out a hand, gesturing to Adelene's flight helmet which the pilot handed over gratefully. "Of course, this baby has less than five flight hours to its name. The pilot who ferried her in from Joshua's Station didn't downcheck any of the systems. And we haven't found much reason to tweak or calibrate anything. Guess maybe JAW's lived up to its reputation with this one." The crew chief stroked the _Pathfinder's_ armored leg in the manner which a mother would a child.

"Maybe . . ." Adelene nodded, gripping the first handhold with one hand before hoisting herself into the air, reaching out for the next one with her other hand. Barely reaching the next handhold which was located beside the knee thruster housing with one outstretched hand, she propelled herself onward, floating ever higher in the microgravity.

The cream white armored skin flashed past her in a blur as she reached out with alternating hands to grip the strategically placed handholds placed on the exo armor's body. Well, strategic would be an oxymoron in her case considering her height, but she was glad that Jovian exo armors had enough edges for her stretching fingers to find purchase.

On reaching the cockpit pod located halfway up in the _Pathfinder's_ chest, she arrested her momentum with both hands on the tip of the open cockpit hatch.

The crew chief followed in her wake. With Adelene's helmet tucked under one arm, the Sergeant moved with grace that belied her apparent bulk. With just one hand for gripping, the Sergeant made the journey up to the cockpit in three powerful thrusts while it had taken Adelene twice as many. The crew chief handed the helmet back to Adelene without looking smug at her own achievement.

"Thank you, Sergeant." Adelene nodded, slightly awed as she retrieved her flight helmet.

"Where are you off to, ma'am?"

"JSS _Forge_. I'm going to be one of the flight leaders with the Dark Dreamers."

"Glad to hear it, ma'am." The Sergeant replied sincerely. "I shan't hold you any longer, ma'am." The crew chief gestured to the open hatch that led into the cavity in the pod attached to the _Pathfinder's_ chest.

Adelene nodded and pulled on her flight helmet, making sure the seal was tight and secure. Though the cockpit's interior was pressurized, it wasn't wise to wait till an emergency that necessitated exposure to vacuum to realize that her helmet had not been properly sealed. She then made sure that her flight boots and gauntlets were safely secured as well before she gave herself a gentle push from the edge of the hatch's lower half.

It was at this juncture that she was thankful for her small size. The entrance to the _Pathfinder's_ cockpit wasn't exactly what one could call spacious and trying to enter while under normal gravity would certainly result in a backache.

Gripping a stanchion, Adelene rotated herself in mid-flight, curling herself into a ball so as to pass through the opening without clipping any of the edges before coming to rest in the pilot's seat. While slipping her booted feet into the restraints, her hands worked on the buckles of the safety harness. With that done, she reached out and stuck her helmet's communications cable jack into the proper socket just as the crew chief peered up through the open hatch.

"Can you hear me, ma'am?" The sergeant asked as she tapped the headset clipped near to her own ear.

"Yes, I hear you." Adelene nodded, flashing a thumbs-up. "I'm going to start adjusting the frame now. You can seal me in."

The crew chief nodded and disappeared. A heartbeat later, the cockpit's hydraulic-driven hatch began to swing shut. A series of screens and displays were already lit as they idled in stand-by mode. Adelene's hands started working the master control panel, accessing the personal settings options where she selected the linear frame auto-configuration function.

A heartbeat later, the exo's linear frame, which would allow the _Pathfinder_ to replicate her movements, began to close around her. She remained absolutely still for the first ten seconds as the frame close in around her body and tightened. To the uninitiated, sitting in the claustrophobic and dimly-lit cockpit while a liner frame encompassed and seemed to crush your body was normally a terrifying experience. Here in the privacy of the cockpit, Adelene recalled the first time she piloted an exo. The recollection still made her cheeks color.

A green light winked in her face and she tested the motion of her limbs, throwing both legs forward in turn before turning at the waist, bending her arms and rotating her wrists just as she would if she had been out in space. The linear frame responded to each and every one of these movements with far more resistance than it normally would if the machine had been operational, microprocessors gathering data regarding the manner in which Adelene shifted her body and limbs to supply input. Several seconds later and the green light flashed once more, signaling Adelene to remain still.

Then the numerous display screens and the twin flight control sticks closed in around her and adjusted themselves to an optimal setting. She smiled as the exo's computer prompted her to key in her name. Her fingers flew over the touchpad and she watched as "Chan, Adelene. Warrant Officer" appeared on the main display, followed by her service number.

With just thirty seconds of effort, EAL-04A _Pathfinder_ Command Type serial number 217064D belonged to her. Well, almost, she grinned as she reached out to make a minor adjustment to the right-hand multifunction display. She always liked to have that slightly out of the way. Whether it was her tiny act of rebellion to show that JAW hadn't built the perfect machine yet or simply one of those idiosyncrasies that many pilots had, she wasn't entirely sure.

By now, the other systems within the cockpit were coming up to normal operating power, their combined luminescence replacing the diffuse red glow that had bathed the exo cockpit only moments before.

Satisfied that everything was where it ought to be and working as it should, Adelene worked the communications controls situated within easy reach. She selected a frequency and thumbed the transmit button. "Khannan Traffic Control, this is Two-One-Seven-Zero-Six-Four-Delta, _Pathfinder_. Warrant Officer Adelene Chan piloting. Do you copy, over?"

There was a short pause, which was understandable. Unlike her previous assignment at Solomon Base, where activity followed a distinct start-stop pattern, Khannan's traffic controllers were always busy round the clock. As the home to Gamma Division's headquarters as well as the JAF's primary basic training facilities, Khannan saw far more military traffic than any other base in the Confederation.

"_Pathfinder_ Two-One-Seven-Zero-Six-Four-Delta, this is Khannan TC, reading you loud and clear." On the comm screen, she could see the calm-faced controller looking off-screen as if pre-occupied with something else.

"Khannan, _Pathfinder_ Six-Four-Delta requesting clearance to depart."

"Wait one, Six-Four-Delta, we're clearing the drop bay for you now."

With the help of her exo-armor's wraparound holographic displays, Adelene could see several amber lights flashing as support crews cleared away from the cubicle, having prepared the _Pathfinder_ for launch. She waited a few more seconds as the last of the technicians left, clearing the passageway beyond the alcove where her exo stood, until at last only one person remained in front of her exo. She recognized the figure as the crew chief who had helped her strap in only moments before.

"_Pathfinder_ Six-Four-Delta, this is Khannan Control."

"Go ahead, Khannan." Adelene replied, feeling the familiar thrill of excitement passing through her as her body tensed in anticipation.

"You have clearance. Proceed to the drop bay and await further instructions." The controller paused and then looked at her with a slight smile. "Oh, and do watch out for the techies on the ground."

Adelene chuckled and nodded. "Will do, Khannan. I'm moving out now."

She flexed her limbs slightly then enabled the linear frame that wrapped around her body. A few quick flashes of her navigational lights told the waiting crew chief that she was ready to go and the woman nodded before waving her forward.

Taking a deep breath, Adelene shifted her left leg forward, feeling the slight resistance from the linear frame. Working an exo wasn't quite like wearing a spacesuit, but with the nimble _Pathfinder_, it was close. A heartbeat later, she had brought the exo's metal-shod foot back down onto the deck once more.

Adelene felt the contact and smiled, exulting in the great sense of power that came with piloting the multi-ton war machine. She took another step forward as the crew chief waved her on. And then she took another and another. And then she was out of the cubicle and in the middle of the wide passageway that she come through earlier. One way led back to the Ready Room while the other led to the drop bay.

Following the instructions of the crew chief, she turned and aligned the _Pathfinder_ with the 'taxiway' that let to the drop bay. Three streams of strobing lights clearly demarcated the path she was to take and she could see the crew chief now standing clear, waving her forward.

She turned and nodded her exo's head at the crew chief, than thumped down the passageway, through the massive double doors that led into the drop bay. Watching the markings on the deck carefully, she selected the nearest ready slot and stopped. Considering that no one else would be departing with her, the drop bay was cavernously empty. It wasn't quite like the drop bay back on Solomon where exos were lowered in turn from the hangars by way of large elevators.

"Khannan, _Pathfinder_ Six-Four-Delta, now waiting in the drop bay."

"Copy that, Six-Four-Delta. We're closing the drop bay doors now."

Adelene looked over her shoulder, her machine mimicking her movement and bringing its head-mounted cameras and sensors to bear. She could see the double doors grinding shut now and she leaned back slightly to relax.

"Drop bay doors sealed. Depressurizing the drop bay now."

As the atmosphere in the cavernous drop bay was being evacuated, Adelene found herself thinking about her new assignment. After spending so much time as a junior instructor and aggressor pilot at the Jovian Exo Combat Advance Training School at Solomon Base a transfer to fleet operations was certainly a welcome change.

Of course, there had been no lack of flying while she had been at Solomon. But she was getting tired of duplicating supposed CEGA exo tactics in a controlled environment against batch upon batch of fellow JAF pilots. As crazy as it sounded, she longed for the freedom of open space, even if that meant flying uneventful patrols as opposed to set-piece combat training scenarios. At least that way, there was always the chance, however remote, that she might get to shoot at something.

It wasn't that she was a borderline psychotic who was drawn to killing and destruction. However, in a Solar System where pirates roamed the Belt regions and where the cold war between the CEGA and the Jovian Confederation sometimes flared hot, The JAF had the privilege of counting combat experience as a criterion for promotion.

Her performance during the Battle of Elysée where she was credited with downing a pair of _Syreen_ exos while flying a _Lancer_ fighter had attracted the attention of her superiors, which brought with it the prestigious JECATS assignment. Now into her fourth year of service, she was eligible for consideration with regards to promotion to Lieutenant.

But time hadn't stood still in the period that she had spent at Solomon. Admirable and prestigious as her position at Solomon had been in comparison to other officers of her rank and age, there were still many others out there who had seen combat, be it against pirates, terrorists or even regular CEGA Navy forces while she had been playing 'bad guy' at Solomon. There were many others who could be placed ahead of her in this respect during the ranking exercises that were held in the middle of every year.

Priorities in the promotion boards tended to shift with each year, particularly with the higher ranks of Captain, Commander and Colonel. Depending on the needs of the service in a particular, there could be an emphasis on personnel with outstanding administrative, computer, training, analytical or even public relations skills. It was all a matter of supply and demand. The only variable whose value did not change however, was that of combat experience – which tended to be the primary quality sought after in the promotion of front-line combatants like exo-armor pilots.

A squadron posting, like the one she was about to embark on, gave her the opportunity of being out on the frontier, where encounters with pirates were likely as were standoffs with the CEGA Navy. She had gotten lucky once in her 'shore' posting when the Battle of Elysée took place. But she knew she wasn't going to get that lucky again. So it wasn't for just for the thrills that Adelene sought a combat posting, though she had to admit that she did find the contest of wills and skills exhilarating at times.

"_Pathfinder_ Six-Four-Delta, the drop bay has been depressurized. You are cleared to approach the airlock."

Adelene glanced at the atmospheric sensor display and noted that she was now in a vacuum. Looking ahead, she could see the airlock doors, set into the 'floor' of the drop bay beginning to open even as she took her first step forward.

The massive hatchway locked full open just as she reached its edge. Looking down at where her _Pathfinder's_ feet were, she could see the black carpet of space pinpricked with stars. Off to one side, she saw an _Alexander_-class destroyer sitting serenely in place as swarms of spacesuited figures and M-Pods hovered around it.

"_Pathfinder_ Six-Four-Delta is at the hatchway, requesting permission to depart."

"_Pathfinder_ Six-Four-Delta, Khannan TC. Roger, you have clearance. Good luck and good bye."

"Thank you, Khannan. Six-Four-Delta departing." A quick glance at her instruments once more told Adelene that her thrusters were warmed up and ready while the rest of her motive systems were fully functional as well.

She leaned her exo over the edge and bent its knees, imitating the pose of a human about to leap of a diving board. Then she disengaged the magnetic clamps in her exo's feet and propelled herself out the hatchway and into the cold depths awaiting her beyond. The lighted interior of the drop bay flashed by her, but she wasn't swallowed up by the darkness of space. Like so many other colonies, Khannan and its surroundings were brightly-lit, both by artificial and natural sources.

Satisfied that she was clear of the drop bay, Adelene gripped the throttle lever and shoved it forward. The thruster pack strapped to her _Pathfinder's_ back ignited with a mighty roar that was transmitted to her through the machine's innards and she felt herself hurtling forward as she built up acceleration. The standard _Pathfinder_ could manage 2.8 gees at overthrust while the _Pathfinder_ CT could do slightly better at 2.9 gees.

With the acceleration pressing her against the padded seat that was built into the back of her linear frame, Adelene let out a whoop before she slammed the control stick hard to the right, apogee motors working to send her exo into a corkscrewing maneuver forward.

With her right thumb, she cycled through the series of sensor contacts around her before stopping at the one she was looking for, its IFF transponder announcing its identity to all. The JSS _Forge_, name ship of the _Forge_-class patrol carriers.

She pointed her exo at the carrier then cut back on the thrust, allowing herself to coast in a little. The carrier was still a tiny sliver of gray no longer than her thumbnail. But in space, such distances meant little.

"JSS _Forge_, JSS _Forge_, this is _Pathfinder_ Two-One-Seven-Zero-Six-Four-Delta at your two by five inbound fifteen." Adelene announced, indicating her relation to the escort carrier to make it easier to separate her from the heavy space traffic around Gamma Division Headquarters.

"Copy that Six-Four-Delta." A fair-faced brunette with a cheerful smile greeted her. "This is Corporal Loh of the JSS _Forge_. We have you on the screen, ma'am. Decrease five and come left three-one."

"Roger, decreasing five and coming left three-one." Adelene reply as she applied a burst of thrusters to slow her forward motion, firing the maneuvering verniers to realign her machine in the requested direction.

"Continue on present heading," the cheerful communications operator said. "I'll hand you over to TCC for final approach guidance once you reach one hundred klicks."

"Thank you, _Forge_. Most appreciated." Adelene responded, smiling underneath her helmet visor. It really felt good to back in space again.

"Uh, wait one, Six-Four-Delta, I believe the squadron commander would like to have a word with you as you approach." Adelene almost thought she saw a conspiratorial smile on Corporal Loh's face. "Hold on, I'll patch you through."

The Corporal's face vanished, to be replaced by that a dark, lean man with a piercing gaze. It was a face that Adelene recognized immediately. There were a few more lines at the corners of his eyes now and there was a touch of grey creeping into his close-cropped, raven-black hair.

"Lieutenant . . ." Adelene saw the gleaming double bars on the man's collars and stopped herself short. "I mean, Captain Dicher!"

"Small solar system, isn't it?" Captain Ron Dicher smiled, pearly white teeth standing out against the dark brown of his face. "Glad to see you again, Officer Chan."

"Same here, sir." That was about all Adelene could think of. She had not expected to meet her former flight instructor and mentor again after leaving the JAF Proving Grounds. But here he was in the flesh, as her squadron commander. Indeed, it was one very small solar system.

"So you're finally ready to come and fly with me after all these years, Chan?"

"Most definitely, sir!" Adelene replied, her excitement barely containable. In her time at Solomon Base, she had met many great pilots. Often though, few great officers were great pilots and vice versa. Captain Ron Dicher was both. And he was one of the very finest she had ever known.

"I like that enthusiasm, Chan!" The squadron commander grinned. "It's going to be just like old times."

"Yes, sir!" Adelene replied eagerly. _Like old times _. . .


	6. 006 School of the Soldier

**SCHOOL OF THE SOLDIER**

_**My troops are good and well-disciplined, and the most important thing of all is that I have thoroughly habituated them to perform everything they required to execute. You will do something more easily, to a higher standard, and more bravely when you know that you will do it well. **_

-Frederick the Great-

**20 DECEMBER, 2212  
KHANNAN STATION, OLYMPUS  
JOVIAN CONFEDERATION**

Breanna Chan was very sure her lungs were going to explode. Somehow, something seemingly as simple as timing her breaths was beginning to go wrong. Her heart seemed to be pounding off in its own accelerating rhythm while her ragged gulps of air failed to supply the needs of her body. A tingling, aching sensation was starting to creep into her extremities and she felt a building urge to cry out in agony.

She could see that she was fast approaching the next phase of her ongoing nightmare. Her legs continued to carry her forward, but with little of the bounding grace that she had started out the obstacle course with.

Before arriving on Khannan for her basic training, she had thought that her hard work in the spaceport had prepared her for the rigors of basic training. But out on the Obstacle Course, with her legs rapidly turning into lead, she was beginning to think that she had been somewhat hasty and overly optimistic in judging her physical fitness.

Indeed, much of her previous work had involved strenuous activity in zero gravity, which was an art form in itself. But running in normal gravity, fighting the effects of one's own weight, Breanna was beginning to appreciate the differences between being declared medically fit by the medical officers and actually being physically fit. She heard a wheeze behind her and saw that it was John Cheah, struggling to catch up.

What her squadmate had lacked in grace and finesse, he sure made up for with brute strength and sheer willpower. While he would certainly have no trouble outdistancing her on a normal day, John had the grand misfortune of suffering an accident in the Zero-G Confidence Course the day before. She had been right behind him when he had gotten himself creamed whilst negotiating the Spiked Tunnel which had the macabre nickname, 'the Blender'.

Consisting of an enclosed, spinning cylinder that was some thirty meters long, its interior was studded with spikes that protruded from the walls of the already narrow tunnel. These were blunt, padded spikes which were technically incapable of impaling anyone. In order to succeed, a recruit had to push off from the start point and present as narrow a profile as possible, keeping his or her hands clasped and pointed forward or flushed along the sides.

Even as an experienced dock worker, Breanna had found the Zero-G Confidence Course, especially the trips through the Blender, most terrifying. Accidents were common, though injuries requiring hospitalization were not. It was a device that sought to intimidate and terrify recruits, a purpose it achieved to an extent far out of proportion to the damage it could actually inflict on the human anatomy.

Her slim, narrow frame had been an advantage and she normally had little trouble making it through, provided she remained calm. On her first try, she had joined countless others in being blended when she had panicked and allowed one arm to slide slightly out of position.

John's accident had not resulted from panic. As far as Breanna was could tell, the man seemed to be insanely brave. It was almost as if he was trying to shake off the perception that others might have had of him as a rich, spoilt brat who wasn't up to the task of being a soldier.

_No_, Breanna found herself smiling slightly despite the burning sensation that was clawing at her lungs. John had gotten himself pummeled while showing off. Firstly, he had pushed himself off one-handed. Secondly, he had not stopped before hurling himself forth. And thirdly, in an effort to get through quickly, he had thrown himself forward with far more strength than was necessary. Breanna had arrived just in time to see him smash into the spine-covered wall before he was sent bouncing from side to side for almost a minute before Pulver finally arrived and ordered Deleon and Szofran to pull the hapless recruit out.

While it had been most amusing watching John being 'blended' for what had seemed to be the umpteenth time, albeit with far more severity than ever before, it was just as surprising to realize that he had survived his ordeal without breaking any bones. Badly bruised and winded, John was violently sick for nearly an hour after that as he tried to convince himself that the universe had stopped spinning. At the time, it seemed as if the greatest casualty had been his ego. But watching him struggling behind her, wheezing and panting, she began to wonder if he wasn't as indestructible as he looked.

But there were other things on Breanna's mind as she continued to charge ahead even though her entire body rebelled against the whole idea. She was approaching the final station on the Obstacle Course which had appropriately been nicknamed as the 'Terminator'. With only thirty meters more to the start of the obstacle, John was beginning to drop back, his breathing becoming harder and more irregular as his body finally began to yield to the battering he had received the day before.

In order to negotiate the 'Terminator', recruits would first have to charge up a series of beams that form a flight of 'steps' with gaps large enough for a human to fall through. Missing a step here would have severe and painful consequences, particularly for the men. Immediately after their ascent, recruits would then have to tackle a stretch of horizontal bars before dropping onto a balance beam that threaded a route in the shape of a 'Z'. If the trainee managed all that without tumbling, they would then have to haul themselves up five meters to the next platform with the help of a rope.

Once there, the final stretch was a joke compared to everything else they endured. A maze, built onto a sloping surface that led back to ground level was all that the trainee needed to negotiate before finally completing the course. However, with its high walls, blind corners and steep incline, the recruits who were already on the verge of collapse would often caromed from wall to wall rather than thread through the maze.

If she hadn't been struggling with regulating her own breathing, Breanna would most certainly have gulped at the prospect of having to go through the 'Terminator'. Several recruits were ahead of her, doing their best to clear the massive obstacle without injuring themselves. Breanna hated the 'Terminator'. But it wasn't just hate. There was fear as well. She was always afraid of hurting herself somewhere in that kaleidoscope of pain-inducing obstacles. To have completed the majority of the thousand meter course only to fall right at the end was a fear that she always had to grapple with.

A loud voice drifted down towards her and she looked up at the observation tower that sat astride the 'Terminator'. She froze, quite literally, when she saw Sergeant Pulver standing there, heaping abuse on the hapless men and women struggling to reach the top. The mean-mouthed Sergeant always had a way of making her feel uncomfortable, even when she was doing something she would otherwise be confident of succeeding with. Today, the thought of having to fight through the 'Terminator' under the watchful gaze of Sergeant Pulver struck terror into every fiber of her being.

The Sergeant swung his gaze in her direction. Despite the distance that separated them, there was no disguising the livid look that contorted his features as he spoke. "What the hell are you waiting for? An invitation for the President? Damn it, don't you dare slow down, you sorry scrawny little shit-for-brains scumbag!"

Breanna felt her cheeks burn at the flow of invective from the senior instructor. It was just another part of her anatomy that was burning now, in addition to her lungs and limbs. She suddenly felt very tired. She suddenly wanted to sink to her knees and give up.

"Holy shit, are you quitting on me, Chan?" Pulver bellowed from his position in the observation tower.

She looked up at the Sergeant in the tower who was gripping the safety railings so hard, they looked ready to buckle. Her lips moved but she found herself saying nothing. She just felt very tired and the final obstacle seemed to be growing taller and taller with each passing second.

"Well, are you? Do you feel faint? Do you feel tired? Are you about to die on me, Chan? Then quit, or better yet, just _die_, you slimy, ungrateful, disloyal, Earth-loving worm! Because if you don't start running _now_, you're going to let that lumbering tub-of-lard Recruit Cheah catch up with you and that would really break your heart now, wouldn't it? Now get going or get the hell of my obstacle course!"

Something stirred within Breanna Chan. She wasn't sure what it was. Whether it was fear of Pulver, the thought of beating John at the Obstacle Course, or a murderous desire to just shut the instructor up, she couldn't be certain. But her feet were beginning to move once more, her numbed legs beginning to ache after the few seconds they had spent rooted to the ground.

"Any time now, sweetheart!" Pulver said sarcastically. "My grandmother could crawl faster than that!"

She hazarded a glance over her shoulder and saw John still struggling to catch up. Joshua Deleon was sprinting past, his face a mask of furious determination. After falling at another obstacle earlier in the course, he was fighting hard to make up for lost time.

Just as Deleon whizzed past her, Breanna heard Pulver's growl once more. "Damn it, Chan! This ain't some sightseeing tour you're on! Now get your ass in gear and _move_!"

Breanna wrenched her head forward and realized that she was about to collide into the first beam that awaited her. Not wanting to test the strength of her shin against the industrial-strength alloy, she slowed down. Her momentum and impetus gone and her normal sense of timing interrupted, she made it up the first three beams at a walk, incurring the wrath of Pulver once more.

"Oh _that's_ right, Recruit Chan, don't make any stinking effort to get to the top of the bloody obstacle. If you were meant to be up there, you'd be teleported there by now, wouldn't you?"

Once more, Breanna felt the sting of the man's comment and she pushed herself into a jog, trying her best to ignore the gaps between each beam. Her heart, pounding as it may have been, shriveled at each step and her stomach turned to ice. She wanted to scream out loud and she would have if Pulver had not been there.

There was a sudden cry in front of her and she looked up and away from the steps just in time to see Deleon instinctively throwing his hands upwards as he missed a step. Recruit Joshua Deleon was quick enough to shift his center of gravity in mid-fall to avoid having his groin bear the brunt on the intervening beam, but he wasn't fast enough to fall right through the gap. Breanna winced as his shin connected with a crack before watching her squadmate tumble unceremoniously into the hard deck below, howling in pain.

"Deleon!" She squatted and stretched an arm through the gap in a effort to reach him. "Are you alright?"

All she got in response was another howl of agony as Deleon curled up into a ball, hugging his shin close to his chest. "My leg . . ." He finally managed through gritted teeth.

"Hang on . . . I'll . . ."

"Recruit Chan!" Pulver yelled from above her like the wrathful voice of God. "Are you a peace-loving, pain-fearing, flower-picking, wimpy-ass medic?"

Breanna turned around and shot the Sergeant a pathetic look. "But Sergeant . . . he may have broken his leg!"

"And just who the hell appointed _you_ the orthopedic surgeon of my training platoon?" Pulver fumed, keeping her stare affixed to her. "Are you just plain _stupid_ or are you trying to _kill_ Recruit Deleon?"

"Sergeant, I . . ." Breanna struggled to formulate some sort of response. Her body-spanning aching, the energy-sapping fatigue and the terrible unnerving screaming from below all conspired against her capacity for coherent thought. "But what about him?"

"I'm asking the questions here, you worthless dirtbag!"

"Yes, Sergeant!" Breanna snapped in practiced response.

"Well, thank you very much! Can I be in charge for awhile?"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

"Now you keep moving or I'll make sure _you're_ the one who's going to need an orthopedic surgeon!"

Breanna hesitated and looked down at her squadmate. John was at the bottom of the 'Terminator', watching the entire scene, wide-eyed.

"Damn it, Chan. If you don't get moving again in three seconds, I will come down there and pull out your limbs one by one before shoving them down your throat! Now _move_!"

"Yes, Sergeant!" She finally managed to pry her gaze away from her wounded comrade and bound up the final steps before throwing her right hand up to grab the first of the horizontal bars. Normally, she had trouble with the bars, but with the sight of her comrade lying in agony still dominating most of her thoughts, she had little trouble, throwing her hands forward, one bar at a time. By the time she had crossed the horizontal bars, her arms were trembling from the effort.

Releasing her grip on the final bar, she landed on the balance beam. It was here that she was grateful for having picked up ballet as a child. Perhaps it was one thing she had learnt to thank her parents for. Negotiating the Z-shaped route was no trouble for her and she used the time jogging along the narrow beam to recover the strength she would need for the rope climb.

Coming to the end of the balance beam, she came to a stop at the very edge. Some recruits preferred to mount the rope by springing off the balance beam and leaping through the air, Breanna would engage in no such showmanship, especially after witnessing Deleon's mishap. Grabbing the rope with both hands, she tested her grip carefully, then began the torturously slow climb up towards the platform above.

Each pull sent searing stabs of pain into her already aching arms. Rivulets of sweat poured down the sides of her face and into her eyes and mouth, the salty taste provoking a violent urge in her to throw up. With just one meter to go, she began to understand the expression 'to be at the end of one's rope' from a very new perspective. She toyed with the idea of letting go, throwing herself at the platform and catching the edge with her hands. But the prospect of hanging off the edge by her fingernails, five meters up in the air without the strength to pull herself up did not appeal to her.

She heard an angry grunt below her and saw that John had cleared the balance beams and was beginning to haul himself up the rope enthusiastically. Her eyes stinging, her hands burning, her arms weakening, Breanna Chan gritted her teeth and took a revolting swallow of salt-filled saliva before continuing her upward journey, painful centimeter by agonizing centimeter. She did her best to block out the pain. She squeezed her eyes shut, she tensed her muscles and she let out several screams.

And her hand finally reached the crossbeam that the rope was secured to. She swung herself over and promptly collapsed onto the platform with an impact that knocked the wind out of her. Rolling over and onto her knees, she let out a primal growl before forcing herself to her feet. She was almost there. Yet the pain and fatigue seemed too much to take.

"See you at the bottom, Bre!" John laughed as he pounded past her and into the maze.

Once again, Breanna felt something move inside her. It was as if a divine spark had been ignited within her, animating her limp, aching body into action once more. She found herself bounding forward into the maze, using her hands to bounce from wall to wall as she took off in John's wake. She could hear him as he pounded his way through, each grunt telling her that he had collided into yet another wall.

It may not have been the smartest thing to do to ricochet bodily through the maze. But John Cheah was built like a tank. He could take it. But it would slow him down. Breanna finally caught up with him, just two turns from the finishing line. She waited till he slammed into the next wall before making her move.

"Coming through!" She yelled as she shouldered him back into the wall that he was just stepping back from. A sharp hundred and eighty degree turn followed and her shoulder clipped painfully into the edge. Breanna bit back a scream and pressed on. Two short meters forward and one more turn and she was finally basking in the unobstructed glare of the florescent lights high above her.

She dropped to her knees and finally felt ready to expel the contents of her last meal onto the deck. Except the spot she had chosen had already been covered with someone else's vomit, recoiling from the putrid pool, she backed off, right into John who came barreling out of the maze into her. They both tumbled across the decking, though Breanna's quick reflexes allowed her to escape being steamrollered by him. She finally came rolling to a halt in on a spot that was people-empty and thankfully vomit-free. Sitting herself up painfully, she felt as if she had been run over by a truck. Or a tank, she corrected herself as she cast a glance over to John who seemed to be hurting at least as much as her. _Good_.

Breanna Chan took a few deep, labored breaths, feeling the heat rising off her face and the sweat flowing down her body. She had beaten John. _Well, not fairly, but who cares_? It was over.

Only that it wasn't.

"Alright, Chan and Cheah, you've made it. Hooray." It was Lieutenant Vygotsky's turn to harass them. "Now let's see you get those emergency spacesuits on!"

John groaned as he crawled over to the pile of emergency spacesuits that sat in a corner. Breanna wisely kept her opinions to herself as she made her way over too. Where Pulver was coarse and confrontational, Vygotsky was scholarly and sadistic. While Pulver punished the bodies of the recruits under his care, Lieutenant Vygotsky took savage pleasure in playing with the minds of his recruits.

This added wrinkle, the need to find an emergency spacesuit with one's serial number printed on it and put it on correctly immediately after completing the Obstacle Course was the brainchild of Vygotsky. According to the platoon commander, it was to simulate a situation where one has made his or her way through a series of perils aboard a dying ship into a 'safe' room where they had limited time to put on an emergency suit before total hull integrity was lost.

That was difficult enough when one was totally worn out after running the entire obstacle course. But Vygotsky wasn't satisfied with that. He would quiz the recruits as they struggled into their suits, their minds barely functioning due to the pain and fatigue. Recruits would have to stop whatever they were doing to answer a question before they could proceed with donning on their suits. If they answered three questions wrongly, Vygotsky would send them back to the start line to run the Course all over again.

"Cheah," Vygotsky began just as John found the suit with his number on it from amongst the mess. "What is the model of the spacesuit you are holding?"

"Uh . . . uh . . ." John deliberated. "PN-9J Emergency Space Suit!"

"PN-9K," Vygotsky corrected. He was a man with an obscene obsession with trivia. "And you forgot to call me 'sir'. Watch it, Recruit. Now stay still till it's your turn again."

John hung his head low in disappointment, the unopened emergency suit held in his hands.

Breanna had located hers by this time and was opening it halfway when the Lieutenant turned to her. "Chan, what is the weight of the suit you are holding?"

Breanna paused, focused her mind and then answered. "One-point-five kilograms, sir!"

"Correct. Proceed, Recruit Chan." Vygotsky nodded with a slight smile. "Cheah, back to you. How much air should the pressurized cylinder contain?"

John frowned, then smiled and replied, "Thirty minutes for an average adult, sir!"

"That is correct. Proceed." And John began to furiously open the suitcase that held the emergency suit while the Lieutenant left him off the hook for a few precious seconds.

"Chan, how long can an average human survive unprotected in vacuum?"

Breanna stopped with one leg already in the unfolded suit. "Up to three minutes, sir." She managed to say without hesitation.

"Proceed. Cheah!" Vygotsky directed his gaze to John who was trying to jump into his suit. "Your body will explode on exposure to vacuum? True or false?"

"False! It will implode." John replied with feigned confidence.

"That is incorrect, Recruit. It will do neither. That's Strike Two. Remain still, please." The Lieutenant turned back to Breanna who had pulled the suit up to her waist and was beginning to slide her hands into the sleeves. "Chan, instead of exploding or imploding, what will happen when the body is exposed to space?"

Breanna felt her mouth fall open at the question. It was so broad. It was so vague. How much information did the Lieutenant want? How much could she give before making a mistake? "The lack of pressure will cause internal gases to try and escape. Capillaries near the skin will . . . burst, resulting in a . . .a body-wide bruise. Your blood will boil . . ." Breanna winced as she made that last statement, realizing a heartbeat too late that she had made an error.

"Wrong, Recruit Chan. The gases will try to escape and the capillaries will burst. But your blood will not boil. Remain still." Vygotsky turned back to John who already had one of his arms in his suit. "Recruit Cheah, can you tell me why your blood will not boil?"

"I . . ." John's eyes were wide with panic. If he got this one wrong, he would have to run the entire Obstacle Course again. "I . . ."

"Well?" Vygotsky looked impatient. "Five seconds. Four . . . Three . . . Two . . ."

"_Wait_!" John cried out and Vygotsky stopped. When John spoke, his tone was flat and emotionless, as if resigned to the fact that he would have to tear off the spacesuit and head over to the start line for a second run. "The skin and the circulatory system, sir. They have some kind of structural and environmental protection . . ."

Vygotsky eyed John for what must have seemed like an eternity to the recruit before he finally nodded. "That is correct. Our skin and circulatory system provides the protection to our blood. Your external fluids such as saliva will boil though, because of the extremely low vapor pressure at body temperature. You may complete your suiting up."

The platoon commander turned back to Breanna who was beginning to get slightly impatient. "Chan, will the body freeze instantly in space?"

"No, sir!" Breanna replied triumphantly and resumed putting on the suit.

"Wait." Vygotsky said simply. "Why?"

Breanna stopped short. She knew the answer but she couldn't find the words to explain herself. Behind Vygotsky, she could see John finish putting on his suit. "I . . . it's because . . . because even though space is cold . . ."

"Yes, space is cold. Don't state the obvious, Chan."

"Even though it may be cold . . . there is no medium for heat to transfer away from the body in vacuum."

"Absolutely correct." The Lieutenant smiled humorlessly. "One more question though."

Breanna wanted to explode. _Why the hell is he singling me out today_? However, she managed to suppress her frustration and replied with a simple, "Sir?"

"Should we hold our breath in vacuum? Why or why not?"

Breanna heaved a sigh of relief. This was something that had been drilled into her since her time she had been with the IGS. "We should not, sir. Because if we do, severe damage will result to the lung and inner body membranes. Instead, we should hyperventilate to charge the blood with oxygen if possible, and exhale fully when in vacuum, sir."

Lieutenant Vygotsky stared at Breanne for a long moment before he finally spoke. "Outstanding work, Recruit. You may proceed." Then with a tight smile and a barely perceptible nod, he added, "It looks like we can make a real soldier out of you yet."

And then he was gone, off to harass the next batch of recruits who were emerging from the maze. Breanna pulled the suit up and over her shoulders, stopping short of deploying the clear, protective hood. Despite the muscles that were screaming for rest, Recruit Breanna Chan realized that she was grinning to herself.


	7. 007 Merry Christmas

**MERRY CHRISTMAS**

_**All's fair in love and war.**_

-Francis Edward Smedley-

**24 DECEMBER 2212**

**CEGA COUNCIL CHAMBERS BUILDING, GAIA CITY**

**EARTH, CEGA SPACE**

From his perch atop the CEGA Council Chambers Building that dominated the skyline in the heart of Gaia City, Alvin had a spectacular view of the immense acrology. Many, many levels below him, the teeming millions who called Gaia home went about their daily business, only a few ever bothering to cast glances towards the edifice that stood as a symbol of the CEGA's might and power.

Half a globe away, in the drab acrology of New Berlin that served as the CEGA's second capital, a massive building with facades fashioned after the CEGA's eagle symbol served an identical purpose.

Peering over the railing, he could barely make out the details of the ground cars threading their way through the maze of streets the crisscrossed the capital. On a normal day, the roads would have been choked with gridlocked traffic. But today, drivers who ventured onto the roads had the rare privilege of being able to make tangible progress every few minutes.

The amount of traffic in Gaia had always astounded him. All his life, he had always thought acrologies were supposed to be tightly-controlled environments where private vehicles were seen as detrimental to the acrology's carefully-maintained interior. Apparently, halfway across the world from home, things were very different.

Hailing from the massive acrology of Singapore which pre-dated the Fall of Mankind, Alvin had grown up in one of the most important Non-aligned States in the world. Though damaged during the Third World War, the Singaporeans had managed to survive the trials of the Long Winter using fledging vat technology to grow yeast and algae resources to feed themselves. It had been a first among the many technological innovations that the island nation used to survive and prosper.

Over the years Singapore had expanded to become one of the major trading powers on Earth, annexing part of the nearby Malay Peninsula and rising to compete with nations many times its size. Not even the Unification Wars which resulted in the formation of the CEGA could dent the Republic's rise to power and it was this wealth and power it has garnered is behind its nickname, the Southern Lion.

Unlike China and the Takeda Corporation, which ruled Japan and tended to dominate worldwide views of the Asian Trading Sphere, Republic of Singapore was very careful to keep up its harmless mercantile image. By its own history and cultural inclination, the Singaporeans got along well with every ATS state, had close ties with ANZAC and the Azanians, significant financial and trade links to South America and even managed to maintain diplomatic relations with the Persians, handling all of that reclusive nation's international trade.

With such influence, backed by wealth, technology and armed forces whose real size is kept hidden even from its friends, Singapore was far more influential than outsiders would ever realize. In short, it was one of the best places outside of CEGA territory to grow up and make a living in. He always thought about the home he would never be able to return to whenever he was in Gaia.

Having originally enlisted in the Republic of Singapore Air Force at the age of nineteen, he was flying top-of-the-line fighters in defense of his nation by the time he was twenty-one. But in 2203, a passionate desire to explore the expanse of space, and a dedication to a dream to see the world united under one government led him to resign and transfer his citizenship over to that of the CEGA.

He wasn't the only Singaporean who had ever done that, leaving a stable, peaceful life to join the ranks of the CEGA which was often perceived as an imperialist tyranny. But at twenty-three, Alvin had believed it was possible to work within the system to bring about change. And he wasn't the only one to think that way, nor was he the first.

Councilor Ignatius Chang, was perhaps the most famous (or infamous, depending on who you asked) example of such a visionary. Hailing from the various Non-Aligned States, they believed in the CEGA's ultimate goal of uniting all of Earth and subsequently all of mankind under a single banner. Calling themselves the Unificationists, they believed in the dream of one central government over all, but rejected the militaristic designs of the Imperialist and Loyalist factions.

Like Chang, Alvin had become an outcast to the people he had grown up with. To them, it was as if he had signed a pact with the devil. And in a way, Alvin had to concede that he had. The CEGA's ultimate goal was noble enough, though there were more than enough interpretations of what that dream encompassed and the means to achieve them to convince Alvin that he may never find vindication through the fruition of his dream within his lifetime.

At thirty-two, he had spent nine years in service to the CEGA Navy, having achieved his desire to spend time in space while advancing little of his cause towards peaceful unification of mankind. Ten years away from home, his friends and his family had changed him. The CEGA Navy was his home now. Until the day the Non-aligned States joined the CEGA, it was unlikely that he would ever see the insides of the beautiful, green acrology of Singapore ever again.

In the time he had spent in service to the CEGA, he had seen so much that needed to change. Many of his American and European comrades who had grown up under the auspices of the CEGA had believed their homelands to be the last bastions of civilization on Earth, believing the rest of the world to be starving, savage primitives.

Clearly they had never seen Singapore or the marvelous underwater acrologies built by the Takeda Corporation. Alvin had striven to enlighten his compatriots, but he realized that his 'version' of the Non-aligned States did not gel with that which was championed by the CEGA Joint Military Service's Political Command.

Thrice in his career, he had narrowly avoided sanctions from PolCom's witch-hunters. An investigation, regardless of its findings, would certainly have been a black mark on his service record. His superiors had periodically counseled him to toe the party line while the various unit political officers had been far less sanguine in their dealings with him.

While none of his superiors ever ignored his dedication when composing his quarterly fitness reports and none of the political officers ever went so far as to call his views of the ATS lies, they had all, in their own different ways, made it clear to him that they were not thrilled by what he was doing.

Perhaps the man who had best summarized the sentiments of the others was the chief political officer stationed at Goliath Station where Alvin was assigned as a flight instructor. A pragmatic man who nevertheless did his job and was duly concerned of Alvin's potential ability to fill his students' heads with politically incorrect ideas, he had called for a special interview with Alvin.

There, he had said in no uncertain terms that the CEGA needed to view the other states on Earth as opponents who needed to be subjugated, eliminated or enlightened. To deprive the CEGA's military forces of an enemy on Earth would be tantamount to accepting the existence of a state other than absolute unification.

Alvin recalled thanking the political officer for his insights and for helping to clarify matters for him. It had been the first and only time anyone from Political Command had ever spoken so baldly and candidly to him. And he had left that office, promising to monitor and limit his dissemination of his 'unhelpful' ideas. Of course, there had been 'lapses', though nothing too serious as to be labeled 'subversive'.

So after nine years of service to the CEGA Navy, Alvin was an ace exo-armor pilot who wore the rank tabs of a Lieutenant Commander but had no squadron command. He was wondering if his political indiscretions had finally caught up with him. Maybe someone thought he and Ignatius Chang deserved one another. Other than that, he had little else to show for in his attempts to effect change while working within the system.

Alvin shuddered. He wondered if it was the chilly winds that blew so high above the crowded streets. Then he shook off the gloomy thoughts and tried to focus on something more pleasant than his current predicament.

While being an aide to a Councilor wasn't the same as being a squadron commander, the job was not without its perks. And soon, he would be enjoying one of those advantages. A smile began to crease his features as he brought himself to study the ant-like swarms filling the streets of Gaia's commercial district below him. Shoppers, out in their thousands, were eager to get in their last Christmas shopping of the season.

It reminded him of bygone days. It reminded him of home. He felt a wave of melancholy rising up inside of him to sweep him over and suppressed it firmly before rolling back the cuff of his uniform to glance at his wristwatch.

She was late. _As usual_. He shook his head involuntarily and sighed before consoling himself. It was of little matter. After being away in space for so many months, a few more minutes were nothing. But of course, to couples who had courted since time immemorial, minutes always felt like small eternities.

"Lieutenant Commander Ng," a voice behind him said with mock formality, causing him to start. "I hope I have not kept you waiting too long."

Alvin felt a smile spreading across his features as he turned around. "It has been a long wait." He remarked wryly. "But I would not be so bold as to fault you for keeping me waiting."

"Smart, safe answer, flyboy." Kallie Chang, with her raven-black hair framing her apple cheeks, stood arms akimbo, evaluated him with a look of mock fierceness.

"I don't suppose I should even ask why you're late this time."

"You know better than to do that." A specter of a smile played across her features. "But if you must know, it was due . . ."

"I know, I know." Alvin threw his hands up in resignation and shook his head. "It was due to a combination of factors."

"But, of course," she replied smoothly.

Alvin noticed the glinting insignia on her uniform collars. They were no longer the single silver bars of a Lieutenant. Instead, the bars were gold, with an embossed arrowhead. He couldn't help smiling. "And how new would those bars be?"

"Ah, you finally noticed!" Kallie looked absolutely delighted. "They were just confirmed today. That's partly the reason I'm late."

"Lieutenant Commander Kallie Chang." Alvin recited and nodded with approval. "Sounds pretty good."

"Can't be letting you have all the rank and glory now, can we?"

"I guess not." Alvin chuckled and shook his head. "It's good to see you again, Kallie."

"Well, it has been six months." Her smile faded slightly and then she pouted. "A very long six months at that too."

"Hey, well . . ." Alvin tried to shrug as nonchalantly as he could. "Duty calls, you know?"

"Well, you didn't have to go on all those extra space tours," she told him pointedly. "I guess that's why you made lieutenant commander two months ahead of me."

Alvin bit his lip. Their long-awaited meeting wasn't going exactly the way he had planned it. He had been looking forward to a romantic reunion, not a debate about career choices. "Kallie, you know it's not about the rank . . ."

"No?" The woman's cocked a brow at him. "Well, I guess not then. It's about the assignment then. Can't blame you. You've always had a thing for space."

"Kallie . . ." Alvin pleaded. "I've been requesting 'shore' duty since two months ago . . ."

"Requesting?" There was that skeptical, questioning tone once more. "Are you sure you weren't just sore over not getting your own squadron command after doing those extra tours so you can have that arrowhead on your golden bars? Oh, I'll bet that must have made you feel pretty bad. Bad enough to request a cushy assignment with Uncle Ignatius."

"Your uncle had nothing to do with . . ."

"On the contrary, I think he had _everything_ to do with your transfer." Kallie interjected firmly. "He's a kind man who's always ready to give promising officers a second chance."

"Second chance . . ." Alvin felt a flash of anger. It wasn't as if he had been denied his chance at squadron command because of criminal incompetence. He felt an instinctive urge to lash back with some choice harsh words, but he managed to keep his fury in check. Instead, he opted to say, "Well, it's up to you, what you want to think." He had tried to keep the hard edge out of his tone.

"But, of course. So, you're going to spend the next six months or so on Earth?" Kallie asked, seemingly ignoring his tone for the moment. "This is the long overdue 'shore' assignment you've finally secured for yourself?"

"Yes," Alvin nodded, eagerly accepting the change of topic. "Well, it's overdue. But at least it's here at last. And I can finally take some leave to spend time with you."

"A bit late, don't you think?" Kallie asked neutrally. "Six months is a pretty long time to be away."

"Like I said, those extra space assignments really weren't my choice." Alvin shrugged helplessly. "Anyway, it's better to be late than never, right?"

"Perhaps." Kallie answered cryptically, stepping forward to grip the railings and look out at the acrology spread out below her. She didn't look at him. "Perhaps not."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alvin brows knitted together in puzzlement as he turned around to face the city as well. "Look, let's change the subject, shall we? Something more cheery?"

Kallie looked at Alvin, brown eyes were still and apple-cheeks were not dimpled as they normally were. She shrugged wordlessly.

"Okay . . . Well, now that I'm back and I've got some accumulated leave that I should be clearing," Alvin tried to smile despite the fact that Kallie's facial expression remained set in stone. "I'm sure a change of scenery would be great for the both of us and I was thinking of taking a vacation. Somewhere on Earth. Maybe to see the sights in Paris . . . or shopping in Marajo. How does that sound?"

An uneasy silence passed between the two of them. While Alvin tried to keep his expression open and pleasant, Kallie's eyes were slits filled with a discomfortingly frigid look. Then she looked down and away before replying in a barely audible whisper. "I've been reassigned, Alvin."

Alvin blinked. He wasn't sure he had heard her correctly. It was almost like being struck in the gut. With great difficulty, he managed to ask, "Reassigned? Where? When?"

"CSS _Zensen_." Kallie replied, still looking away. "The orders came in response to a request I made in October. She's a _Tengu_-class on Belt patrol duties. I'm to be her XO when she deploys."

Alvin swallowed and felt the knot in his stomach growing. "When . . . when do you ship out?"

"The day after tomorrow." She said without any flourish.

Alvin felt as if he had been pummeled in the gut and his mouth moved wordlessly as he tried to form something coherent to say to her.

"I'm going to have to start packing tomorrow." Kallie added tonelessly. "So there's not much time for anything."

"I-I see . . ." Alvin felt himself going weak in the legs. The world seemed to be whirling around him. "How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know. Maybe six months." Kallie shrugged noncommittally, finally looking back up at him. "Maybe more."

"Six months . . ." He gasped and shook his head. "That's . . . Why . . . why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"It wouldn't have changed anything, Alvin." Kallie told him simply.

"I would certainly have told you not to go." Alvin answered, slightly peeved.

"Look, it's not like I've got a choice now!" The woman snapped. "You know how it works. We all take turns rotating between 'shore' and fleet assignments! Besides, I wasn't ready to spend another six months sitting on some damn orbital station in another administrative post. I'm a ship's officer, Alvin!"

"But you could have told me, you could have prepared me."

"Well, I don't recall you giving much preparation the when you went gallivanting in the Belt after your time as an instructor out on Goliath Station." Lieutenant Commander Kallie Chang snapped back stingingly in response. "You didn't even bother to see me face to face before you extended your time out on Belt patrols."

"But I was already out in the Belt. I couldn't come back and tell you now, could I?" Alvin retorted defensively. "So this is what this is all about? You being upset at me for not preparing you the last time I went out to space?"

"It's more than that, Alvin!" Kallie shook her head violently. "You had your fun out the in Belt while I was stuck in Earth Orbit punching numbers and counting beans and bullets. And when it was time for you to come out of the water and come on back home, you chose to stay out there without so much as asking if I'd mind. And now you've got a plum assignment being an aide for my uncle! I'd say your career's coming along pretty nicely!"

"Well, yes . . ." Alvin struggled to keep his frustration in check. He knew he was losing his temper. "I mean, the assignments were important to me. But so are you!"

"It didn't feel like it while you were out there extending your stay while I was stuck upstairs twiddling my thumbs behind a desk!" If it had been anyone else, Alvin would have fully understood that train of thought. But he hadn't been expecting it from Kallie. He had expected that _she_ if anyone at all, would understand what he did. Apparently, he was wrong.

Very wrong.

"Well, I've got news for you, flyboy." Kallie continued. "I'm not some trophy who's contented sitting on the rack while you're out hunting! I've got a career too and I intend to work on it. So now it's my turn to spend time in the fleet and there's nothing you can do to stop it!"

"But I'm going to miss you . . ." Alvin began, controlling his tone with palpable effort.

"So? You have no idea, Alvin Ng! _No_ idea at all how much I missed you the last six months and how much it hurt to not have you come back when you ought to have!"

"Look, the needs of the Navy came first!" Alvin yelled and several other couples within earshot spared furtive glances at them before moving away.

"That's right, Alvin." Kallie said, her eyes going moist. "And right now, the Navy needs me out there. And that's where I'm going to be. For as long as I'm going to be needed."

"Damn it, Kallie! What about me?"

"What about you?" She cocked a brow at him. "It's funny, how things are reversed now. And how you seem to be handling it worse than me."

Alvin felt a flash of fury within him and his hands balled up into fists at his side. "So that's it? You're just going to leave me on Earth now?"

"Well, it's not like I'm doing anything you _haven't_ done." Kallie stated coldly. "You made your choice back then. And I've made mine. That's all there is to it."

"But what about us?"

"The needs of the Navy come first." Kallie repeated flatly. "And right now, I'm afraid the Navy needs me out in space, aboard the _Zensen_ while you, _Lieutenant Commander Alvin Ng_, are needed _here_ serving Councilor Ignatius Chang. What it does _not_ need is the two of us trying to manipulate our schedules and assignments just so we can see each other. I'm _thankful_ I had you to help me understand that."

"Kallie, don't do this." Alvin reached out to touch her arm just as she turned to go. "Don't do this. You'll regret it."

"I'm already through with regret. I was. Six months ago." Kallie said, shaking off his hand.

"Damn it, Kallie Chang. I love you!"

"But you love your duty _more_." Kallie said, the hard look in her eyes softening. "And it's the only thing I cannot fault you for."

She began to walk away, her back ramrod straight while the wind tugged as her uniform. She paused after exactly five paces then turned around, tears glittering in the light of the setting sun. "I'm sorry, Alvin. Maybe when there is no longer a need for us to defend Earth, we may start over again. But until then, I'm afraid there is no place in our lives for each other."

Alvin didn't say anything. He couldn't as he was struggling to hold back his own tears.

"Merry Christmas, Alvin." She said half-heartedly. "Maybe we'll meet again someday." And with that, Lieutenant Commander Kallie Chang turned on her heel and retreated towards the shade of the rooftop garden.

_Merry Christmas_ . . . Alvin watched her go, and then turned back to face the city sprawled out below him. Christmas decorations and vehicle headlamps had now replaced the fading sunlight, making for a picturesque spectacle.

But Lieutenant Commander Alvin Ng didn't care.

That scene was incomplete now. And he felt hollow.

He wept bitterly.


	8. 008 Unit Induction

**UNIT INDUCTION**

_**Remember that these enemies, whom we shall have the honor to destroy, are good soldiers and stark fighters. To beat such men, you must not despise their ability but be confident in your own superiority.**_

-General George S. Patton Jr.-

**26 DECEMBER 2212**

**GOLIATH STATION**

**EARTH ORBIT, CEGA SPACE**

Christmas had come and gone far too soon. Ensign Lydia Goh knew she wasn't the only one who felt that way. The number of gloomy, wistful or hung-over faces she had seen in the passageways of Goliath Station was mute testimony to that.

Yet unlike many of her comrades, she had spent most of the holiday in slumber. That would have explained why she look far fresher than a significant portion of military personnel she had encountered so far. The only ones who looked any sharper were the recruits and cadets from the basic training schools and the Naval Academy who never failed to salute her despite the fact the was the lowest form of officer life in the Navy.

Lydia was an atypical exo-armor pilot. While many of her peers had a tendency to live rather extravagant and exciting lives that had been a distinctive mark of pilots since the dawn of combat aviation, Lydia was far more mundane in her pursuits. Petite and soft-spoken, there was no way for anyone to tell that she was an exo-pilot during a first meeting. She stood no taller than the collarbones of most of her peers and she spent most of her time looking up at people. But she had never let that deter her from becoming an exo-armor pilot.

Having spent a part of her teenage life touring the Solar System with the Intersettlement Geographical Service, she had accumulated the experience in using linear frames that made her a consummate exo-armor warrior. What she lacked in physical strength and stature was easily offset by the capabilities of the machines she piloted and her own in-born reflexes.

It had been her natural talents as a leader and a pilot that had resulted in her selection for both officer training and _Wyvern_ qualification. Her first tour as an officer following her commissioning had been a successful one and her reward had been to spend some leave touring the cradle of humanity.

Now that her furlough was finally over, she was glad to be back in orbit again. Having been brought up in the overcrowded orbital colonies that surrounded humanity's Mother Planet, she had thought that her life had been a harsh one.

Yet it had not prepared her for the squalor and chaos that she witnessed on Earth. Nothing the media had said about it could ever do justice to the magnitude of the ecological damage that was still waiting to be repaired, coupled with the daily violence that was so prevalent outside of the acrologies.

On Earth, there was a limit to how much one could be isolated from the news of rampant violence and internecine conflicts that plagued the planet. Up till that time, she had not realized that Earth was a planet under siege. She had fallen prey to the common misconception that Earth was mostly under CEGA control and that the remaining states that were not so inclined towards CEGA membership were decadent societies that were no match for the might of the CEGA's mighty military.

She had been shocked to discover that the Forward Defense Armies and Occupation Control Units had manpower resources to equal the Navy's. And that was excluding the troops in the armies of the CEGA's member nations who were tasked with both internal and frontier defense duties.

It had been a sobering experience realizing the irony of the CEGA's power, which seemed absolute only in Earth's orbit and perhaps the Moon. She had wondered how differently the leaders of the Orbitals would have reacted had they found out that CEGA's control of Earth had not been complete, or even stable.

It was altogether likely that the Orbitals may well have remained independent of Earth's grip and Lydia's current career choice would have remained an impossibility. _But hindsight is always 20/20_, she thought to herself. CEGA controlled the Orbitals now, and with its massive space-going Navy, much of the space around Earth.

Even if things went badly for the Earthbound forces, there was always the Navy in orbit. None of the Non-Aligned States had anything that could match the power of the three Orbital Squadrons that were assigned to cover the globe, poised to rain death on any part of the Earth within an hour.

Lydia rounded a corner, taking care to compensate for the weight of the duffel on her shoulder, and found herself in a central passageway. Natural light, polarized by special windows, spilled into the corridor which was bustling with human traffic moving back and forth. Gazing out the thick windows that lined the wall on her left, she could see several warships docked with Goliath Station. Work tubes, supply umbilicals and power cables snaked back and forth and some of the smaller ships undergoing refits looked as if they had been caught in a gigantic web.

There were another dozen or so that were not tethered but still holding station around Goliath. They were representative of the CEGA Navy's warship inventory, ranging from the ubiquitous _Bricriu_-class corvettes and humble _Tengu_-class escort carriers to the more powerful fleet units such as the _Hachiman_-class destroyer and the _Uller_-class missile cruiser.

But of the panoply of assembled warships, only one in particular held Ensign Goh's attention. From her viewpoint, it was easy to pick out. And not even the relative bulk of a _Hachiman_ destroyer could obscure it.

Built like a giant slab with a seemingly puny thruster assembly attached to its stern section, the CSS _Courageous_ was second ship in the _Birmingham_-class, constructed almost four years ago. Measuring some 400 meters from bow to stern, she was nothing more than a huge rectangular block, with segmented boxes on each side, giving it all the beauty and grace of a pregnant whale.

Marring its already ugly features was a pair of over-under triple Kinetic Kill Cannon mounts which seemed to have been added on as an afterthought and completing the image was a pair of stumpy snouts protruding from the ship's blunt, blocky bow. Lydia knew these were the ship's P56 particle cannons.

What she hadn't known was that the _Courageous_ had yet to undergo the rebuild that would update her capabilities and give her a silhouette more akin to the newer _Kiev_ or _Invincible_. She had known beforehand that the _Courageous_ was old, but she had not expected to find it in its near-original state, missing many of the features that had been incorporated into the latest versions of the _Birmingham_ attack carrier.

Not only had the ship retained its 2208-configuration armament but its drives were of the unarmored type, consisting of two large engines mounted in a top/bottom manner that looked far too vulnerable to Lydia's practiced military eye. The hull-mounted launch bays were situated well aft, unlike the latest versions which had them mounted amidships.

More discomforting was the lack of the catapult rails and runways extending from the four launch bays on each side of the ship. That meant that exos had to boost their way out of the hangar unassisted. It burned up precious reaction mass and coupled with the location of the launch bay, meant that a slight miscalculation could send a machine and pilot plowing into the carrier's armored side with disastrous results.

Unsightly as the ship may have been, she was still one of the most powerful vessels in the service of the CEGA Navy. While the _Poseidon_-class battleship could generate more firepower, there was no way it could match the reach or versatility of _Birmingham_'s on-board squadron.

Sixteen exo-armors and interceptors were certainly more than sufficient to take out an enemy battleship and Lydia was sure that the ship's capabilities were awesome enough to give even Jovian commanders pause. And soon, she would be finding herself aboard that ship. It was certainly an immense step up from her last ship deployment, which had been a _Tengu_-class escort carrier that normally carried no more than a pair of exos or fighters.

Lydia glanced at her watch and picked up her pace. It wouldn't do to be late reporting for duty. She didn't want her future commander to have any reason to believe that she was the sort who'd get a hangover after a holiday. She found the access tunnel to the docked carrier easily enough and was sufficiently impressed by the immaculate turnout of the Marines who checked her identification before letting her aboard.

A stone-faced Marine private was then assigned to guide her to the squadron ready room. Certainly, it was a luxury she had not expected. But rank certainly had its privileges and she was still an officer, even though she was a very new and junior one at that.

As she traveled through the passageways and up through the various decks to 'Pilot Country', she couldn't help but notice how clean the ship was. Although her exterior was evidence enough to show that _Courageous_ was pretty low in priority when it came to refits and upgrading, her interior showed none of the ship's age. The decks were uncluttered and the paintwork seemed spotlessly clean and new. The crew members she ran into along the way wore crisp, clean uniforms and worksuits and they all bothered to greet her despite her low rank. Apparently, _Courageous_ was a tight ship.

She was surprised to find that the ready room was almost full by the time she arrived. She had expected post-holiday hangovers to hold back some of the pilots. But from the way some of them were talking and from the few snippets of conversation that she overheard, many of the pilots were old hands, having served aboard _Courageous_ before she had called at Goliath Station for routine preventive maintenance.

Leaving her bag in a corner near a pile where four others sat, she dismissed the Marine who had accompanied her and stood watching the pilots in the room. No one seemed to pay her any notice. A few of them were alone, some were dozing, while others who were presumably newcomers, sat quietly away from the noisier clusters, trying to look busy.

Lydia made her way over to one of the rows where one of the newcomers was sitting. Naturally a shy person, she left a gap and sat down without a word. The other pilot barely registered her presence. At the back of the room, the conversation was getting louder and more excited.

Lydia tried to block that out for the moment and glanced nervously at her watch. Looking at the other seated pilots, she noticed that she wasn't the only one doing that. She felt small and intimidated in the cavernous ready room. It was larger than anything she had ever seen in her very limited time in the fleet.

And it wasn't just the size of the room that worried her. Glancing first at the empty seats and then at the pilots clustered at the back, she knew the days ahead were going to be difficult. Always the shy one, Lydia wasn't the sort of gregarious person who went round making friends wherever she went.

In her days with the _Tengu_, she had only one fellow pilot to work with and she had already found that a challenge. Here, there would be at least fifteen other pilots to know and that was certainly intimidating enough. It didn't help that assignment to a Birmingham was a clear sign that one was being counted amongst the best and she was sure that the others were going to act the part. In short, she was being thrown into a social and professional pressure cooker.

The minutes continued to drag by and a few more new arrivals entered the room, most of them choosing to sit alone while waiting for the time to pass. And then, just a minute or two before she had been due to report, the conversation began to die down and the pilots who had been socializing all made their way to fill up the empty seats. A tense silence ensued, broken only by a nervous cough.

And then, at exactly 0900 hrs, December 26, 2212, the doors to the ready room swept open and a frowning man with the rank insignia of a lieutenant commander stalked in. The pilots needed no encouragement to rise to their feet as the man took his place at the podium located at the front of the room. He swept the room with a fiery, intense gaze before nodding once.

"Be seated." There was a certain tautness to the man's tone and Lydia couldn't help but feel uneasy at the amount of energy that seem to be suppressed in the man's slight frame. His eyes showed no sign of softening as the squadron sat.

Again, there was complete silence. Not even the nervous cough. The man at the front of the room eyed them for a few more uncomfortable seconds before he spoke again. "I am Lieutenant Commander Darren Armistead. I will be your squadron commander."

There was a gasp from somewhere in the room. Lydia frowned slightly at the name. It sounded vaguely familiar, but she wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Lieutenant Commander Armistead's lips were compressed into a razor-thin smile as he regarded them all.

"I believe some of you here may have heard of me." Then in a rather cryptic fashion, he added. "Well, whatever it is that you may have heard, let me assure you that it is all _true_."

There was a groan from the back of the room and Armistead smiled at that. "Yes, you will come to discover that I can be a very hard bastard when it comes to training. But if you do what I say and train as hard as I tell you to, you will come back alive. It should please you to know that while I will most certainly make your lives miserable with my training regimes I have yet to lose a pilot in combat."

A hand went up. Lydia noted that it was a blond lieutenant who had been one of the most talkative pilots. The man had a confident, almost arrogant air around him.

"Yes, Lieutenant . . ."

"Perconte. Roland Perconte."

"You want to say something, Lieutenant Perconte?"

"No disrespect to your methods, sir. But we're all pretty good pilots as it is. It's not as if we need to go back to Tactics 101, sir." Perconte said as evenly as he could. "I was under the impression that tensions with the Jovians have decreased significantly since the . . . incident at Elysée. The threat of war has diminished somewhat, hasn't it?"

"Firstly, the 'incident', as you call it, was an act of war, lieutenant. I was there. And that was just Round One." Armistead began, his eyes narrowing into slits. "And you'd be a fool to think that the CEGA can ever achieve its dream of unifying all of mankind without a war with the Jovians."

"Surely, they will not risk that, sir." Perconte sounded skeptical. "After all, we have the more powerful Navy."

"Be that as it may, Lieutenant, do not assume for a moment that the Jovians won't use their military." Armistead cautioned. "They've spent billions to build those ships, those fighters and those exos. And they've spent a lot to train the people to man those machines. They're going to use them before control of this Solar System is decided. It's just a question of when."

"Yes, sir." Perconte replied half-heartedly.

"Granted, things may have quieted down since Elysée. But that's not to say the Solar System's a safer place. Look at the crap that's happening on Mars."

"It looks like an internal dispute to me, sir." Perconte shrugged and several other pilots nodded. "And if it comes to war, they're going to be fighting it themselves again."

"Not necessarily, lieutenant." Armistead held up a hand to forestall any further comment. "All of you have been assigned to this ship because you are good pilots. And reliable ones too. I'm not sure how reliability is measured, but that's a problem for Political Command. Anyway, that means that you're cleared for the situational briefings that I'm going to be giving you in the days to come. It's going to be pretty different from what you've been hearing out in the escort fleets or whatever hole you've crawled out from. This is Fifth Fleet, the big time. So listen up while I give you some of the highlights."

Lydia sat up slightly. There was something conspiratorial about the squadron commander's tone. It was as if he were a father about to share some family secret with his children who had come of age.

"First, let's talk about Mars. In the last war that they fought, things got really ugly. It got so bad that both sides wanted out. But there was too much pride at stake and it was only with the Jovians acting as intermediaries that they finally signed a ceasefire. Not the kind of thing you'd see highlighted in your normal filtered newscasts. But you check the history archives and you'd find it there." Armistead explained. "Now, with us trying to make friends with the Feds and the Jovians doing the same with the Republic, it's not hard to see what might happen if war does break out and we all try to cement our commitments to one another with more than just words."

There was a stunned silence in the room as the pilots took sometime to process that. Most of them had known about their governments diplomatic efforts to woo the Martian Federation. Few had known about the Jovian connection and fewer still had managed to draw the conclusions that Armistead had regarding the consequences of a war between the two Martian nations.

"And that's just Mars. Let's talk about the Earth system, shall we? Anyone here from North America?" Armistead asked and nodded when he saw a couple of hands raised. "Well, you may think that the North American Alliance has things well in hand. But the truth is that it's a shaky thing at best. The Maritime League may be one of the most stable nations, but you mustn't forget the riots that took place earlier this year in response to the conscription policy. Oh, and there's always the fundamentalist, ultra-paranoid New American States whose disagreements with the rest of CEGA are simply too violent for our news people to ignore. And then there's our loyal Republic of Texas . . . It's just a pity that Generalissimo Salvatore Diego is one serious crackpot. And there are the socialist Green States of California too, who are the food bowl of North America. Apparently, relations are being strained because they do not see eye to eye with the present OCU commander."

Lydia furrowed her brows as she tried and succeeded in recalling the name of the woman commanding the Pacific Occupational Control Unit. Jennifer Atkins, once labeled the Butcher of Brisbane for actions in the last war with ANZAC forces. Lydia vaguely recalled how the woman had soured relationships between CEGA and the Green States because of some 'ecologically disruptive' mining techniques in the Pacific Ocean. It was something that may yet lead to renewed war with ANZAC and consequently with the rest of the world that wasn't aligned with CEGA.

"And that's just the CEGA member states. The people of the Quebec Federation aren't particularly pleased at being only a provisional member of the CEGA. The West Indian Federation is about as close to what can count as friends in North America though their membership has remained provisional for varying reasons. Then there're the CEGA-administered territories like the Northern Resource Zone, Pacific Occupied Territories, Great Plain Reclamation Zone and Southern Occupied Territories. Not all are dead zones. And not all are uninhabited either. Certainly, the natives are not particularly happy with CEGA presence."

That was quite a surprise to some of the pilots in the room. After all, wasn't the CEGA supposed to be a strong and stable central government and administration that already held full sway over matters on Earth. It had been drilled into them when they had entered the Navy. And up in space, high above the troubles of Mother Earth, there had been little reason to suspect that Political Command's version of domestic affairs was less than accurate.

"Oh, and that's not all." Armistead went on. "The Army has itself spread out across four Fronts. On the Bering Front, our naval forces clash frequently with Siberian forces for control over resources on the Artic seabed. Over on the Greenland Front, our people aren't particularly cozy with the Scandinavians. Down south in the Panama Front, our OCU troops are doing their best not to antagonize the South Americans so that there will be no threat of invasion from North America's weak underbelly. And of course, there's the Pacific Front, which most of you are familiar with. Neither Japan nor ANZAC is particularly pleased with the drubbing they received back in the Unification Wars so you can bet they're itching for a chance at Round Two."

"Damn . . ." Perconte whispered. He was one of the few pilots hailing from the North American Alliance.

"So go on and tell yourself that there's no threat." Armistead challenged. "And that North America is pretty much the safest place on Earth controlled by the CEGA. Well, it is, relatively speaking. I've not even mentioned Europe or worse, Africa. And we mustn't forget that almost all of Asia remains unaligned and much of the continent still has many bad memories about us and the Unification Wars. Those Wars didn't win us the overwhelming victory and total control of Earth that we've largely been led to believe. It simply stabilized things enough for the formation of CEGA and its outward-looking policies. But don't you even think for a moment that things are going to be peaceful forever."

The silence that descended upon the briefing room was both eerie and deafening. For many of them, who had always relied on PolCom-approved news broadcasts and the weekly situation briefings by their commanders who were subject to the Political Officer's sanctions, it was the first time that the cold, hard and unadulterated truth was being presented to them.

For many, it was the first time that they were challenged by the notion that the CEGA was truly a nation under siege. It may have ruled the Orbitals, the Moon and the space lanes between Venus and Mars. But on the ground, where the seat of government was, it remained surrounded by enemies were eager to settle old scores. To have the idyllic impression of CEGA as a strong and stable nation shattered so suddenly was a sobering experience.

"Do not underestimate the Non-aligned States. We may have our fleets orbiting over their heads, ready to bombard them into the Stone Age. But they've got orbital weapons platforms of their own as well as some surface-to-orbit weaponry." Armistead revealed, much to the further horror of the assembled squadron. "And even if we take down those platforms, they can still hurt us on the ground with their ICBMs loaded with chemical, biological or nuclear payloads. I don't think I need to tell you what's going to happen if one of those hits an acrology like Gaia."

"But, sir . . . couldn't we shoot them down . . ." Perconte looked revolted at the revelations. Lydia suspected that he must have been a native from Gaia. "We've got defenses that can take the missiles down when they hit Earth orbit, right?"

"Only if they are ICBMs and only if we're in the right place at the right time." Armistead said in a tone that one normally reserved for explaining things to a child. "They've got surface-skimming cruise missiles too. Reportedly with limited stealth capabilities. Anyway, we only need one to get through and we'd be in a world of hurt."

"Same thing for the Orbitals, huh, sir?" Lydia was surprised to find that she had spoken.

Armistead directed his grim gaze at her and nodded. "Yes. If someone knocks even one of the skyhooks or space stations out of Earth orbit with a missile, you're going to see a repeat of the Martian Elevator Fall. It's going to be nasty." Armistead explained. "And that's why the Orbitals are probably the most pacified of the lot. No one wants to risk a shooting incident amongst those colony cylinders. Can't say the same for the Moon though. The Copernicus Uprising back in 2210 should be evidence enough that not everyone on Luna is thrilled with CEGA rule."

While many of her Earth-born comrades were still grappling with the shocking revelations surrounding the situation of their homeworld, Lydia wasn't too surprised. She was an Orbital. Cold-hearted as it may have sounded, she had never felt much loyalty towards Earth. It was simply the seat of the government she served. The needs of the Orbitals were foremost in her minds. Sure, the Jovians were still a threat. But they'd have to fight their way past the Belt and Mars to ever bring a war to her doorstep. As for the Non-aligned States . . .

To be truly honest, fighting any one of the Non-aligned States would certainly beat fighting the Jovians. She had friends from the Confederation. Friends whom she made during her time with the IGS. Some of them had considered a career with the JAF. The thought of going up against them didn't thrill her.

Then their squadron commander leaned forward and in a low ominous tone, he spoke the words that sent chills down Lydia's spine. "I was at Elysée, people. I saw how Fifth Fleet got chewed up. And as far as I'm concerned, our main enemy is still the Jovian Confederation. The sooner we pay them back for what they did to us, the sooner we'll have them out of the equation. And with the Jovians out of the picture, no power in the Solar System can stop us from crushing the remaining resistance on Earth. I tell you this, so you'll all understand where I'm coming from when I conduct my training. The Jovians are our greatest enemy, and we will all do well to remember that."


	9. 009 Ambitions

**AMBITIONS**

_**A man's worth is no greater than the worth of his ambitions.**_

-Marcus Aurelius-

**29 DECEMBER 2212**

**KHANNAN BASE, OLYMPUS**

**JOVIAN CONFEDERATION**

Recruit John Cheah had never expected training to be this _tough_. Certainly, he had expected it to be difficult. But even before enlisting, he had been in good shape. Or so he had led himself to believe.

But six weeks into his basic training, he was beginning to harbor some major doubts about his readiness for a career in the military. It wasn't really the strain on his body that caused him so much grief. But rather, it was the mental pressure, the hazing and the yelling by Pulver and the other instructors. Always dissatisfied with the present performance, always finding something wrong with what he was doing, always demanding more . . .

There were times when he wanted to feel fortunate for not having been selected for Officer Training School. His mind could not imagine a hell worse than the one he was currently going through. But he would chide himself whenever that thought crept into his mind.

After all, he still dreamt of being an officer. The only difference now was that he was more willing to accept the fact that he would need a few years of toughening as an enlisted man before applying for officer training.

The recruits of Second Platoon were waiting their turn at the shooting range now. First Platoon was still having their turn at their live firing practice and they had a few more targets to go before they were done.

In the meantime, Second Platoon found itself with a rare opportunity to loaf around in their squads. The instructors were loath to put the recruits through any form of punishing calisthenics, especially right before the trainees' first live shoot. No one wanted to be standing next to a panicky recruit who was already worn out by a series of 'warming up' exercises that were best left to after the shooting was done.

"Hey, John," Reuben Szofran called out as he returned from his washroom break, dropping down next to John, his rifle muzzle swinging dangerously close.

"Hey, be careful with that thing . . ." John frowned as he gripped the muzzle of the assault rifle and held it away forcefully.

"Relax, it's not loaded." The farmboy from Zagadka shrugged, flashing his annoyingly innocent smile. "At least not yet."

"Look, boy," Joshua Deleon, the oldest in the squad, spoke up. "That ain't your daddy's shotgun, alright? So just be careful, ok?"

"Yeah, yeah, ok," Reuben pouted, though he didn't really grip the rifle any tighter. "I've got it."

"Yeah, and just remember to point it at the target and nowhere else." John added.

"Since when did you become the expert on shooting?" Breanna chimed in. "It's not like you're any better than us."

John had to admit that Breanna had a point. And she was being uncharacteristically charitable in her comments. Of the five members of the squad, John had come in fourth in his scores at the Marksmanship Simulator, beating only Daniel Lacombe, and by a single point at that. And Daniel, the son of academics, was a self-confessed pacifist wimp.

"Well, it's not just the performance in the simulators that count, right?" John countered lamely. "Besides . . . there's all this stuff about weapons handling and safety to consider . . ."

"Fine, fine," Reuben shook his head in exasperation. "I'll be careful to only blow off your nose instead of your head if I happen to point my rifle the wrong way, alright?"

"Why, thank you," John replied with matching sarcasm. "Thank you very much!"

"Hey, guys, what do you all plan to do after Basic?" Daniel asked, changing the subject before more verbal sparring could take place. "I mean, as you can all see, I'm not really cut out for all this soldiering stuff. I'm hoping to be some kind of bridge crew. Sensor tech or comm operator maybe. Certainly nothing that puts me behind a weapon."

"Well, I guess we can all understand that." Breanna offered, surveying Daniel's puny frame. "But hey, you've been doing alright so far."

"Thanks."

"I won't be so sure you're right about the 'soldiering' bit." Deleon drawled. "You know what Pulver would say. As long as your survive Basic, you're a solider. Don't matter what you do."

They all nodded, grunting in agreement. A civilian might have taken Pulver's words as just inspiring, jingoistic babble. But they weren't the ones going through the drill instructor's brutal training regime.

"So what about you, Joshua?" Daniel asked. "Exo-armor pilot?"

"But, of course . . ." A slow, cocky smile spread across Joshua's face. "Wouldn't be here for any other reason."

"Not even fighters?"

"Fighters are so passé." Deleon shook his head deliberately. "The exo is the future of warfare now. It's the cutting edge. And that's where yours truly is going to be, folks."

"Better not let my sis catch you saying that." Breanna said. "She flew _Lancers_ and bagged a pair of _Syreens_ at Elysée."

"Well, they're _Syreens_ . . ." Joshua protested. "They're flying junk heaps. They aren't much of a match for even a _Lancer_ interceptor."

"Well, let's see you bag some kills of your own before you start talking big, yeah?" Breanna chided pointedly.

"I'll get them, you'll see." Joshua assured her in his trademark arrogant manner. "One day, I'll be an ace."

"Guess we'd be waiting to see your face in the news then." Reuben announced with a wry smile on his face. "Of course, we might die of boredom while waiting for that to happen."

"Very funny." Deleon mumbled. "Alright, smartass, what are _you_ going to be then?"

"The recruiters thought I was good material for the Marines." Szofran replied humbly. "So I'm going to take a shot at being an Exo Marine."

"Oh, _Marines_ . . ." Joshua's voice dripped with sarcasm as he slapped his forehead in mild resignation. "How could we possibly have guessed that?"

"What's wrong with the Marines?" Reuben asked innocently, as if unaware of his squadmate's attempt to make fun of him.

"Oh, nothing. Nothing at all." The arrogant recruit chuckled. "I can see what they saw in you, alright. Big, muscular farmboy. Not terribly bright. Why, you're just _perfect_!"

"Hmmph!" Reuben snorted in disgust as Joshua delivered the punch line. "You talk about being on the cutting edge. Well, I think the Marines are the ones who are truly on the cutting edge. Ain't no other way to see the fighting up close."

"More like the bleeding edge if you ask me." Joshua retorted, holding up his hands to signal his rejection of his squadmate's point. "I may be eager for a piece of the action, but I sure ain't crazy."

"Suit yourself, Josh." Reuben shrugged and grinned. "Guess not all of us are cut out to be the tip of the spear. Well don't go complaining about not seeing enough action when we go to war with the Earthers. It's going to be the Marines who are going to be up front, taking those colonies one by one."

"Say, what about you, Bre?" Daniel cut in, once again changing the flow of the conversation before any serious argument broke out. "What do you plan to do after Basic?"

Breanna looked up from her rifle, somewhat lost, apparently in deep thought just moments before. "Hmm?"

"What do you plan to do after Basic?" Daniel repeated.

"Well, I'm not too sure, actually." Breanna shrugged, brows coming together in an eloquent frown. "I was thinking of being an EVA specialist. Or something like that."

"What?" Joshua's normally imperturbable visage slipped for a moment and the others in the squad were equally surprised.

"_An EVA specialist_?" John wasn't sure he heard her right the first time. He had always imagined Breanna to be more . . . combatant. Donning on a heavy-duty worksuit and exiting the airlock for extended spacewalks around a ship or station's hull to chip paint wasn't exactly something that seemed to fit her aggressive nature. It was hard, dirty work with little recognition involved.

"I understand why Daniel doesn't want a combat assignment." Reuben frowned, not quite sure how to proceed. "But you? I guess we'd figured you'd at least try for something more . . .exciting."

"Well . . ." Breanna stalled, looking down nervously at her combat boots. "I used to do EVA work before I joined up. So I guess I just want to use the skills I already have."

"If that's the case, why did you even bother joining up?" John realized that he couldn't understand why anyone would want to join the military and not have the intention to serve in any of its fighting platforms. Even Daniel, who wasn't keen on belong in a combat position still looked forward to shipboard assignment. "Why did you even enlist in the first place if all you were planning of doing is the same thing you did as a civilian? Why trade your freedom away for the uniform and all these regulations?"

"Well, it's something I already know how to do." Breanna replied lamely. "And besides, there's job security too."

"As long as CEGA is around I guess." Joshua pointed out in his usual drawl.

"And the Venusians too." Daniel chimed in. "Let's not forget them."

"And the Martians?" Reuben asked innocently.

"Oh, and what about _them_?" John countered and they all chuckled. They all knew that it was unlikely that Mars would ever become a major player in the solar scope of things. Not with their ceaseless conflicts with one another.

"So John, you're planning on being a Marine too?" Joshua asked nonchalantly shifted his grip on his rifle.

"What? No way. I'm here to be an exo-pilot!" John answered with fierce pride. "No way, I'm going to be stuck as some useless, exo-suited mudkisser."

"Remind me to get you to repeat that when some 'useless, exo-suited mudkisser' saves your ass after your exo's been junked." Reuben snapped, looking thoroughly displeased with the insult directed towards the Marines.

"Well, you know the needs of the JAF come first, even after we specify our preferences." Joshua mouth was curling into that familiar, superior grin. "You won't become an exo pilot on wishful thinking alone."

"Hey, I've been training hard, in case you haven't noticed." John shot back testily. "And I wasn't the one who damn near broke his shin by falling at an obstacle."

"Well, I haven't been blended as many times as you. And I shoot a whole lot better than you!" Deleon's cool demeanour slipped as it gave way to defensive displeasure.

"Oh, yeah? We'll just have to see about that today, won't we?"

"Second Platoon!" Lieutenant Vygotsky's voice cut through the all the chatter. It was only then that John realized that First Platoon has stopped shooting. "Look lively now. Proceed to the firing line and adopt prone, unsupported firing position!"

Almost immediately, Sergeant Pulver appeared seemingly from out of nowhere to add impetus to the platoon commander's instructions. "Alright, you lazy, chit-chatting, rifle-hugging scumsuckers! You heard the man, now move, move, _move_!"

The recruits of Second Platoon came to their feet as one and jogged over to the firing positions that had recently been vacated by First Platoon. Even though his rifle wasn't loaded yet, John gripped it tightly at port arms, knowing that failure to hold his weapon in a safe manner was to tempt fate in the form of Sergeant Pulver. He reached the start of the lane that had been assigned to him and knelt down, taking care to sweep away any empty casings before dropping into prone position. As he went about making himself comfortable, he vaguely noticed Breanna taking up position to his left while Reuben was on his right.

Each recruit went about preparing themselves now, keeping their weapon pointed ahead while they reached into their combat webbing to retrieve their pre-loaded magazines. Since it was their first live shoot, it was not one that would be graded. Not officially though. Still, the introductory shoot was important as a rite of passage and whoever did well would have bragging rights till the subsequent practices. And of course, nobody wanted to screw up in front of Pulver.

John placed the straight magazines next to him. They were far lighter than what would be the norm if he was actually going into combat as each high-capacity magazine held five rounds instead of forty. This was done to ensure that panicky recruits did not fire more rounds than they were supposed to. The introductory shoot was designed to acquaint the firer with four basic firing positions, hence the need for the four pre-loaded magazines. A recruit would expend one magazine of five rounds in each firing position.

The first of the basic four was considered the most common. Firing from a prone, unsupported position simulated a scenario where the shooter has taken cover after an ambush before proceeding to return to fire or any other sort of dynamic combat situation where there was no time to prepare a fighting position.

The target was a man-sized or Figure 11 set at one hundred meters. After that, the recruits would be required to engage those same targets from a kneeling or squatting position, representing a combat posture that was common to urban fighting. This would then be followed by what was known as the foxhole with support position where recruits would climb into a prepared fighting position, complete with sandbag support to engage Figure 12 (half-sized) targets at 100 meters.

And when these three positions were completed, the recruits would then have to sprint fifty meters downrange and engage Figure 11s once more, from a standing shouldered position. Of course, these four were just the basics. There were many other stances that they would learn in the weeks ahead such as foxhole unsupported, standing hip and prone supported. And then there were deliberate and snap targets, day and night shooting to learn as well.

It felt strange to be holding a conventional, slug-throwing weapon in his hands. It wasn't that he was unfamiliar with the basic JAF 7.5mm assault rifle. Weeks of simulator training as well as arms drills had made John intimately familiar with the workings of the weapon. But in an age gauss weapons and lasers, it felt strange to be carrying a weapon that fired bullets. Compared to gauss rounds or laser beams, conventional bullets were painfully slow. And besides, the Jovians were well-known for their reliable, high-tech laser weapons which were ubiquitous amongst its Marines.

Of course, someone had to ask that question and of course, Lieutenant Vygotsky already had an answer prepared for that one. Everyone had to start somewhere and it was always better to start with the basics. Conventional slug-throwers still saw widespread use in the Solar System and no sane JAF general would want his or her troops to be proficient with high-tech weapons and know nothing about basic firearms. Besides, the CEGA employed such weapons in prodigious quantities and it was always a good idea to know how to operate captured weapons, just in case one's laser rifle runs out of ammo. That made sense to John.

But nothing made more sense that Pulver's addenda to Vygotsky's explanation. "You are pukes. You don't deserve a laser rifle till you show us you can shoot."

John brought his weapon up with both hands and pulled it close to his body, pressing the weapon's butt into the hollow of his shoulder. Given his bulky frame that was now covered with muscle, it took a bit of effort to locate the spot where the rifle butt was supposed to rest.

With the weapon nestled close to his face, he peered through the tiny peep sight located at the rear of the carrying handle, aligning it with the aiming tip at the front of the rifle's barrel. He took a deep breath then exhaled, taking a moment to accustom himself to the posture he was now in.

A hush was descending along the entire firing line now as the recruits settled into their firing positions and tested their sight alignments. John felt someone come to a stop behind him and he peered over his shoulder at the new arrival. He then found himself face to face with the growling Sergeant Pulver.

"What the hell are you looking at, Bigshot?"

John snapped his gaze forward as quickly as he could.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, _maggot_!"

"Yes, Sergeant!" John craned his neck around once more.

"There are no targets where I'm standing at, you little punk." Pulver growled menacingly. "You so much as think of putting a round in my direction and your ass will be _mine_, you understand that, you piece-of-shit scumbag puke?"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

"Now eyes front, you horrible little turd!"

John return to his rifle and grasped it nervously in his hands as Pulver continued to watch his squad like a hawk. "Pull the butt in, Lacombe! _Tighter_! You call that your prone position, Szofran? You trying to make yourself a bigger target for the enemy?"

"Second Platoon, Second Platoon, live firing will commence shortly. Live firing will commence shortly. All Chamber NCOs report." It was Vygotsky's voice, amplified by overhead speakers that drowned out the rest of Pulver's comments.

One by the one, the sergeants of the various squads called in to report the readiness of the five recruits in each of their chambers. There was a pause as Vygotsky took in the reports in the Rifle Range Control Room before he spoke once more.

"Firers, magazine of five rounds, load and ready!"

"Load and ready!" The recruits echoed as they proceeded with carrying out the instructions under the watchful gaze of the instructors. John picked up the first loaded magazine and made sure he was holding it the right way up with the rounds facing forward. More than one recruit had made the mistake of inserting the magazine wrongly during the simulator practices.

With his right hand, he flipped the rifle on its side before sliding the magazine into the receiver located behind the trigger group. He waited till the magazine gave a reassuring click as it locked in place before returning the weapon to its original position.

"What are you waiting for, Bigshot?" Pulver yelled. "Ready your weapon!"

John felt like kicking himself. He had heard the command to ready his weapon. The instructors were fond of testing the recruits, sometimes telling them to load the weapon while at other times telling them to load _and_ ready the weapon. John had allowed his nervousness to get to him and he had missed the second part of Vygotsky's instructions.

"Yes, Sergeant!" John replied as he pulled back the charging handle on the rifle's side before releasing it. The first round was chambered with a resounding slap and similar sounds were repeated down the line as each recruit cocked their weapon. Assured that his weapon was now loaded and ready to fire, John's thumb slipped onto the fire mode selector and flicked it to 'Safe'. To accidentally discharge a round before the command was given to fire would be to invite a fate worse than death at the hands of Pulver.

John darted a glance at Reuben and Breanna, noting the looks of intense concentration on their faces. He stared forward down his firing lane, making sure that his body was aligned at the right target. As unbelievable as it may have seemed, recruits had a tendency to fire on the wrong target – Especially if they were identical and arrayed in a neat row. John checked the large painted numerals above the spot where the targets would appear and was reassured that he was pointing his weapon at the right spot. He would have said something about sight alignment to Reuben had Pulver not been standing behind them.

"Firers!" Vygotsk's voice blared overhead once more and a wave of tension washed over the recruits of Second Platoon. "Deliberate Figure 11 at one hundred meters. Own time, own target. Carry on."

With a flick of his thumb, John switched his assault rifle to semiautomatic mode and allowed his finger to slip inside the trigger guard. There was a flash of movement ahead of him and he realized that he had unconsciously looked away from his lane to check that he had thumbed the selector switch correctly. Now there were a neat row of white targets staring at him and he didn't know which one was his.

There was the sharp report of a shot, fired by a recruit was either overly eager or confident of his aim. The loud pop had startled him. Nothing in the simulators had prepared him for the explosive blast of sound. Several more shots were sounding out as other recruits, encouraged by the first shot began to send their bullets downrange at their targets. John forced himself to stare through his weapon's sight, selecting what he hoped was his target. He wasn't sure.

Something very loud sounded next to him and a empty casing spun past him as he realized that Breanna had fired. He heard her mutter something in frustration. _She must have missed_ . . .

"What the _hell_ are you _waiting_ for, Bigshot?" Pulver was bellowing. '_Fire_ your damn weapon!"

That broke the spell and John aligned his sight with the target ahead of him. Staring through the narrow view offered by his weapon's sights, the target looked very large. He wondered if it was really possible to miss. Taking a deep breath, he tugged back at the trigger and the rifle recoiled. The sound still came as a shock and he saw his round hit his target, but only just. It had been high and off to the right.

"Damn it, Cheah! What did we teach you about pulling the trigger?" Pulver roared above the sound of weapons fire. "Don't you go snatching the trigger like some bird-brained movie star! You're a soldier, _squeeze_ that trigger!"

John didn't reply. Instead, he nodded, his mouth dry and eyes stinging from the burnt cordite and re-sighted his weapon. This time, he squeezed the trigger gently until the rifle bucked in his hands and he was rewarded with the sight of his round exploding through the target's center. It dropped out of a sight for a moment so that the firer would know that he had scored a hit, before swinging back up.

Again, John aimed and fired. And once more he hit his target. And the cycle repeated itself again and again and again until his weapon's bolt threw itself back in the open position, indicating that it was empty. A few more seconds persisted as the last of the recruits finished their firing before another hush descended upon the entire firing line.

"Firers," Vygotsky sounded a little pleased that no one had accidentally shot anyone yet. "Unload and check clear. For inspection, port arms."

John 'safed' his weapon, depressed the release switch and extracted the empty magazine from the rifle's receiver. Then, pulling back the charging handle, he tipped the weapon on its side so that any round that may have been left in the chamber would fall out. Sometimes, a recruit may have counted his or her rounds wrongly while shooting, or a magazine may have been loaded with one round too many. There were so many ways to screw up with a loaded weapon on the range. Inspecting the chamber, he noted that it was thankfully clear and Pulver arrived just in time to personally check his weapon.

"Alright, Bigshot, you're clear." Pulver nodded at the rifle held up for inspection. The Sergeant was about to move on when he suddenly paused. "You didn't miss a shot. Looks like you might be good for something after all, Cheah."

Before the compliment had even registered, the instructor was already moving on to inspect Reuben's rifle. _Did he just _. . . John shook himself. It must have been his imagination. He must have imagined that comment. His ears were still ringing after all. A moment later, there was no more time to think about that.

"Firers, adopt kneeling or squatting position."

And Pulver was back, with his usual harsh look on his face. "Alright, you maggots! You heard the Lieutenant! _Move_!"


	10. 010 Black Op

**BLACK OP**

_We make war that we may live in peace._

-Aristotle-

**31 DECEMBER 2212**

**VICINITY OF SIEGPUNKT, ARABIEN PRINCIPALITY,**

**MARTIAN FEDERATION, MARS**

Mars – the Red Planet. For centuries, mankind had speculated that life once existed on the Solar System's fourth planet. Be it elusive survivors of an ancient civilization that had once built the massive 'canals' that stretched across the landscape to malignant little green men bent on enslaving the human race, Mars had always been a source of mystery and wonder.

Despite the early probes of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries dispelling such speculation, the mystique surrounding Earth's neighbor never diminished, even after the first colonists from Earth arrived to make Mars home.

Present-day Mars was different in many ways. The sowing of bacteria and algae in conjunction with other terraforming efforts had resulted in the formation of an atmosphere around the Red Planet and a more Terran biosphere. While its inhabitants were still confined to living within the many pressurized domed cities and settlements that dot its landscape, the environment was now one that was far less inhospitable than that of Earth's airless moon or Venus' boiling hot surface.

Even the people populating Mars had changed in many ways. The disparate refugees fleeing the cataclysmic events that were engulfing Earth during the period leading up to the Fall and the idealistic colonists and terraformers escaping the tyrannical governments of Earth had evolved along with the land they called home.

The successful establishment of cities and agriculture, coupled with the spectacular terraforming achievements, led to a society that no longer had to struggle daily to survive. And it was in the absence of a common struggle to survive that the first cracks began to appear, ultimately resulting in the formation of two very different nations: that of the totalitarian Martian Federation and the antithetical Martian Free Republic.

Yet many things too, had remained the same. The temperature was still low though it hovered just above freezing and rust-red dust continued to blanket the ground. Deep chasms and canyons once believed to be water-bearing canals from eons ago continued to mark the bleak, frigid landscape. Native flora and fauna, if there was ever any to begin with, remained elusive as ever and massive volcanoes sprouting from the red soil continued to dominate the skyline despite the presence of the domed cities.

_And humans will always be humans_, Ranger Shawn Lainer thought cynically to himself as he slid between through a narrow gap in the boulders in front of him. The armored shoulder pads of his Sand Stalker suit scraped gently against the rock and he frowned at the moment of carelessness.

A cluster of five smaller domes sat further away from the main settlement and Shawn didn't need the countless intelligence pictures and briefings to tell him that he was looking at OstWand Military Base. After all, this wasn't his first incursion into Arabien Principality.

He stared at the structures amidst the rocky outcrops which would have seemed haphazard to the untrained observer, Shawn knew that each one of those outposts were covered by at least one other bunker. Knowing the Federation's way of doing things, it was more likely that each emplacement was covered by the guns of two or three more. To directly assault one of these bunkers was certainly a bad idea.

The sight of movement amidst the rocks caught his eye and he zoomed in for a closer look. It appeared as if his tormentors were finally giving up and heading back to base. Shawn heaved a sigh of relief and cursed at the same time.

While he was glad that the Federate hovertanks that had been hunting his squad seemed to be giving up their search, he was furious that they had even located his team in the first place. He was a Free Republic Rangers Scout, not some backwater militiaman.

He was supposed to know his stuff where stealthy infiltration was concerned. But he couldn't help it that his Hellwind transport had gotten itself detected as it crossed into Federate territory. The result was the arrival of several zealous Federate hovertank crews combing their insertion zone, hell-bent on finding the intruders who had roused them from their rest on New Year's Eve. It had been a dangerous game of cat and mouse that Shawn had played with them. And it finally seemed as if the mice had won. Or at least the cats had finally lost their patience . . .

Still, Shawn was mad at the delay that stemmed from having to cover his tracks and move more cautiously as the Federates searched the area. Despite all that was said during the pre-mission planning, he hadn't really been expecting Federate intervention on this mission. A few scattered patrols, he could handle. But twenty-five first-line hovertanks were certainly more than he could hope to deal with and he was forced to go to ground. Now, he was certain that his mission could no longer be completed.

The mission . . . Shawn found himself suppressing an involuntarily shiver at the thought of it. He peered out at the defenses around Siegpunkt once more, hoping to catch sight of his quarry. All he could see were unyielding rock, imposing defensive emplacements and returning hovertank column. He held up an armor-shod hand briefly to signal his team forward.

Again he shuddered, and it had nothing to do with the chilly temperatures around him. The Mars suit that he wore under the Sand Stalker exo suit kept him warm enough. _No, it's not the cold_, he told himself as the rest of his squad fanned out soundlessly around him. Even with the reduced air pressure on Mars, one didn't tempt fate by making too much noise. The shivers had nothing to do with the single digit temperature that surrounded his insulated suit of armor.

On his left, Timmins was crouched with his 30mm rocket launcher trained towards the departing column of hovertanks. Over on the right, Ulandi was bracing his 9mm chaingun, taking care to make sure the ammunition belt did not snag a protrusion of rock while Jung was peering intently though the scope of the GS-1 Gyroc sniper rifle that she 'acquired' several months ago. Gripped in Lainer's own hands was the potent GAC-2 Gyroc Cannon that he had relieved an unfortunate Federate exo trooper of, using it to replace the anti-amor gun he once carried. In addition to these weapons, they all had a motley collection of secondary weapons to suit their personal tastes, ranging from assault rifles and submachine guns to heavy pistols and hummer knives.

In the 'old days', Scouts tended to travel light since they would have to penetrate deep into enemy territory on foot. However, the introduction of the stealthy Hellwind hovertanks allowed Scouts to penetrate deeper into Federate territory, arriving fresh and toting a lot more firepower. The weapons his team carried now constituted a virtual arsenal when compared to the combat loads that had been common until about three years ago. Though he had no real intention of getting into a situation that would demand every ounce of firepower he had at his disposal for this mission, it was still reassuring to be carrying such big sticks.

Satisfied that the rest of his Scout team were in their positions and ready to unleash a whole lot of firepower on his command, Lainer returned his attention to the city, taking his time to study the broken terrain surrounding the Federate military base. He was sure his quarry was somewhere ahead of him. His quarry . . . A part of his mind wandered as he peered through the magnifiers at the jagged, rust-red landscape.

As a Republican citizen, he had been conscripted into the Martian Free Republic Rangers at the age of twenty to serve his five years of compulsory military service. At first, he had planned on fulfilling his obligation and leaving to do something else with his life. Following the completion of his basic training, he had found himself assigned to the elite Scouts.

And it had taken the next three years for Shawn Lainer to realize he had found his calling in life and when his five-year term ended two years ago, he had readily reenlisted for a full ten-year tour of duty, earning a commission to the rank of Ranger in the process.

In seven years of service to the Republic, he had been called upon to undertake countless missions in the defense of his nation. Most were covert, with great pains taken to conceal any sign of Republican involvement while some were clandestine, with the Federates not even realizing that a mission had been carried out. Even fewer, such as the one he was on now, were considered 'black' ops.

These were missions that were so secret that the deniability factor worked both ways. Not only was it necessary for the Federates to be kept in the dark, but even fellow Republicans could not be allowed to learn about such missions. If caught, Lainer knew his government would disavow all his actions and label them as renegades. Apparently, loyalty is a one-way street in 'black' ops, if it existed at all.

And there was a good reason for such an operation to be carried out under such secrecy. For the bulk of his military career, Lainer had stalked and killed Federate soldiers in the course of his missions. But today, he was given the unbelievable task of hunting his own countrymen. He would have thought his commanding officer to be insane if it weren't for the fact that his orders had arrived on official stationery of the Office of the President, bearing both the signatures of the President and the Secretary of Defense.

The mission objective was simple though the mission was by no means easy. Several of the militia groups in the troublesome Isidis Planitia had been stirring up trouble along the border once more. Under normal circumstances, such behavior would have been tolerated, with regular Free Ranger units going so far as to share information with these anti-Federation infiltrators.

However, the fallout from the Republic's implication in the destruction of the Martian Elevator and the present crisis made the Isidis Planitia a clear flashpoint for the next war – a war that the Republic wasn't too keen on fighting. When the President issued orders to the militias to 'cease and desist' until things had cooled down, the militias did the very opposite, increasing the frequency of their incursions as well as upping the violence level of these raids.

With the Federation demanding reparations and spewing rhetoric at the USN General Assembly, the last thing the President needed was a bunch of Federation-hating militia groups to try and ignite the next war. When talking didn't work, the unpublicized Operation Preserve Peace was put into action with regular units of the Republican military trying its best to curb the operations of the militias. Lainer had taken part in a few of these missions himself, with mixed results. So far, no one had been killed despite a few exchanges of fire.

However, several hardcore groups refused to comply even when faced by the lawful armed forces of their own country. One of these was Andy Robinson, commander of the 3rd Isidis Planitia Guards. Lainer had thus been given the unenviable task of apprehending the militia commander, failing which Lainer would then have to use alternative methods to deprive the 3rd Isidis Planitia Guards of its leadership. Without actually being told in specific terms, Lainer had been given Presidential approval to murder a fellow countryman.

They had scrambled when information was received indicating that Robinson was leaving for his New Year's Eve excursion. Lainer had tried to catch up, but the unexpected arrival of the Federate hovertanks had forced him to go to ground.

By now, Lainer was in serious doubt as to whether he could still complete the mission. He had initially decided to call the whole thing off as soon as the Federate hovertanks gave up their search. But now, within sight of OstWand, the renegades' most likely target, he was having second thoughts. Besides, he reasoned, it wasn't likely that HQ would willingly extract his team while Robinson and his men remained on the wrong side of the border.

Taking his eyes away from the binoculars for a moment to glance at the other three members of his team, Lainer noted that they remained at the ready. If any of them had been entertaining thoughts of going home, it didn't show. Jung, the team sniper, sensed his gaze and looked back at her squad leader. Though the blocky helmets of their Sand Stalker exo suits concealed most of their faces, Lainer could still read the questioning look in the woman's eyes.

Shawn shook his head and shrugged, then noticing that Timmins and Ulandi were looking at him as well, he hand-signalled that they would keep watch for another ten minutes before leaving their current position. Satisfied at having gotten an answer, the squad returned to the task of observing the Federate base. Shawn found himself studying one of the dozens of bunkers that surrounded OstWand.

Built to serve as a fortified fighting position for a full Obergrupen of infantry, the bunkers were identically equipped in typical Federate fashion. The snouts of two autocannons protruded from firing slit that ran the width of the bunker. The walls protecting the men inside were half -a-meter thick.

Fully pressurized except in combat, the bunker provided the regular garrison of twenty-five infantrymen with conditions suited for long-term habitation. With so many of these bunkers surrounding OstWand, Shawn estimated that there were as many as five hundred troops employed in guarding the perimeter around the base.

That was of course assuming that the bunkers were all fully-manned. Still, it was a luxury that his own nation could not afford. To even deploy a hundred troopers in a perimeter around their most important bases as a picket line was an awful waste of manpower in the Free Republic Rangers.

Something shifted within his view and Shawn froze. Increasing the magnification to the maximum setting, he scanned the bunker's surroundings more carefully. Then he saw it again. A trio of figures, dressed in rust-red camouflage capes, darted out of a tiny ravine, each one balancing a large rucksack on their backs. Two more figures appeared at the edge of the ravine, the unmistakable shapes of firearms in their hands as they covered their comrades' approach towards the bunker.

Sensing someone's gaze on him, Shawn looked over at Jung. From the way she had her rifle braced against her shoulder, it was clear that she was poised to take a shot.

Having seen her at work before, he was quite sure that she would be able to kill whatever he asked her to. All that was required was his order, which was what the inquiring look in her eyes was seeking.

Lainer agonized over the decision. They were too far away to apprehend the militia. He couldn't simply point his heavy firepower at them and tell them to give up. The alternatives were even less pleasant. If he ordered Jung to fire, they would be killing their countrymen without giving them a chance to surrender. They would die without knowing who killed them or why. Of course, the killing at this range would have to be done by Jung, but it was still his call to make.

And it was more likely that they would all go to ground once the first shot was fired. Not that it would really help much. Jung would kill the first one and then the alerted Federate troops would pour out of the bunker and kill the rest. And in the aftermath, they would have all the evidence they needed to prove the Republican raids.

Short of doing nothing, everything else that Shawn could possibly order would certain involve the deaths of the militia troopers sneaking around the bunker. The only variable seemed to be who would do the bulk of the killing, Jung or the Feddies. He had spent so much time on the mission thinking about this. He thought he knew what he would do if confronted such a choice. Apparently, his confidence had been misplaced. Staring into the abyssal decision of opening fire on his countrymen, Ranger Shawn Lainer flinched.

He held up a hand to forestall his sniper then returned his attention to the militia infiltrators before he could catch the hate-filled look in her eyes.


	11. 011 Chasing Ghosts

**CHASING GHOSTS**

_**If the enemy leaves a door open, you must rush in. **_

-Sun Tzu-

**31 DECEMBER 2212**

**OSTWAND MILITARY BASE, SIEGPUNKT, ARABIEN PRINCIPALITY**

**MARTIAN FEDERATION, MARS**

_Ghosts_, _Gefreiter_ Nelson Lowe thought bitterly to himself as the _Abdiel_ hovertank returned to the road that threaded its way through the minefields and defensive emplacements back to OstWand Base. _Ghosts_, his mind's voice repeated again, more vehemently this time. _That's what we've been chasing_.

And it wasn't ghosts of a spooky or supernatural kind. Nevertheless, that didn't make things any less unpleasant or discomforting. The Federate tank crew member fumed as the dull Martian landscape flashed past the vision slits and holographic displays around him.

Sitting in the cramped gunner's station aboard the PZKLF-17 'Abdiel' Luftpanzer, Nelson had spent the last two hours staring out at the bleak Martian landscape in search of bogeymen when he ought to have been back in the relative comfort of OstWand. It was just his luck that his _grupen_ had been one of those on stand-by duty when the incursion alert had come.

Apparently, one of the thousands of sensors along the border had picked up an airborne contact flying nape of the earth and headed for Ostwand nearly three hours ago before it dropped out of sight.

The contact had been a fleeting one and a small miracle considering that the Republicans were always sneaking across the border to steal, shift or sabotage the remote sensor arrays almost as quickly as his fellow countrymen could install them.

The nearest Federate unit, a detachment of border guards, had closed in as quickly as it could but found nothing that could have accounted for the brief sensor contact. Normally, such an incident may have been overlooked, or the discovering unit may have been detailed to perform a sweep of all nearby sensor arrays to see if there were any signs of tampering.

Normally, it would turn out to be a sensor 'ghost', a glitch caused by faulty equipment or atmospheric conditions, since in the event of an actual incursion, the investigating unit was often too late. Whatever the case, unless the incursion pursued some sort of violent end, Federate commanders were seldom willing to deploy large forces in chasing ghosts.

But with the current crisis and the consequently raised threat levels, Nelson's superiors were taking no chances. It didn't help that the Arabien Principality sat adjacent to the troublesome Isidis Territory of the Martian Free Republic. Violent incursions had long been a way of life even before the Elevator Fall.

And so when the border patrol called in with their report, the duty officer in Ostwand's Operations Center didn't hesitate to send the stand-by hovertanks out into the Martian desert on a wild goose chase.

Nelson found himself seething. Somewhere back in OstWand's Operations Center was a pusillanimous officer on duty who would rather send a full _obergrupen_ of hovertanks out on a meaningless hunt rather than call up his superiors - most who were at the New Year's Eve party being held in the Base's Officers' Mess - for instructions.

"Not exactly what I'd consider an auspicious start to this new year." _Soldat_ Franks, the driver and the most junior member of the three-man _Abdiel_ crew remarked in an attempt to break the monotony of the drive back to base. Franks had arrived less than a week ago after their previous driver was posted to another unit.

"Well, it's not like you've been in the _BundesArmee_ that long now, have you?" Nelson retorted, looking down as the young driver. "How many years have you been in?"

"I . . . well, come this February, it will be my first year." The driver replies sheepishly.

"Pah!" Nelson guffawed and shook his head as he regarded the rookie with a superior gaze that the younger man didn't quite turn to see. "Less than a year in and you talk like the _BundesArmee_ owes you a holiday."

"You mean you've never had a day off on New Year's Eve?" There was a note of incredulity in Franks' tone.

"Look, _boy_, I've been in this Army almost as long as the _Feldwebel_ here," Nelson threw a thumb back at _Feldwebel_ Simon Schneider, the tank commander. "Four years now, to be exact. And I've _never_ had a New Year's Eve off."

"Never?" Franks asked in surprise.

"Never." Nelson repeated firmly. And it was one of those rare moments he was telling the pure, unadulterated truth. "The brass has always found some stupid detail or another to saddle me with. Every year, without fail. In fact, I don't recall ever spending more than a day or two off the bases that I've been assigned to. And come to think of it, I haven't gone home in four years. Not that it matters since home is, well . . . Like I said, it doesn't matter."

"Four years . . ." Franks gasped. "But the recruiters said I'd be given ten days of leave each year . . ."

"Promises, promises." Nelson shook his head again. "Like I said, less than a year in and you think this whole damn army owes you something."

"But I'm entitled. I mean, we both are, right?" Franks questioned, his tone and face uncomprehending. "How could they withhold your leave?"

"Oh, they didn't really withhold anything. It's all just for the sake of the current crisis, yeah? Same all over the Federation." Nelson remarked cynically. "You don't get anything unless you've crawled, slept, kissed, begged your way to the top. With four years in, I've got a fancy stripe on my sleeve and that's about it. Of course the recruiters will tell you that with four years, you'd probably be an _Unterofficer_, or better yet, a _Feldwebel_, just like ours here. But well, that's recruiters for you. They're not paid enough to tell the truth. Come to think of it, seems to be the case everywhere else."

"That's enough, Lowe." Schneider finally spoke. "Stop scaring the kid. You know as well as I do that the State treats everyone fairly – according to the contributions that they make to the State and the Party."

"Of course, _Herr Feldwebel_." Nelson answered sarcastically. "Now, see, boy? The _Feldwebel_ here has put in his five years so now he's got more stripes than me and he gets to order us around."

Schneider sighed as he leaned back in his commander's chair. "Don't listen to him, Franks. Lowe's just like that because he was drafted."

"Drafted? But why?" Franks slipped a sidelong glance at Lowe through the bulky workings of the hovertank's main gun.

"_Why_?" Nelson laughed and threw his head back. "According to the State and the Party that you both extol without thought, I was considered a non-contributor to our utopian society, a drain on our glorious nation's resources, a reviled sloth running counter to the highest ideals of the Party . . . Well, you get the idea."

"In short, he was branded an _Unbrauchbar_." Schneider summarized, referring to the unofficial fourth social class of the Federation's three-class system. "Useless."

"Useless, you say? I'm a pretty decent shot." Nelson retorted testily. "I wouldn't call that useless."

Franks gaped at the gunner in wordless surprise. The silence in the hovertank's crew compartment was finally broken when Schneider said, "Eyes on the road, Franks."

"What's the matter, boy? Never met an _Unbrauchbar_ before?" Lowe taunted.

Franks shook his head vigorously, his eyes fixed on the way ahead after the _Feldwebel_'s mild reminder.

There were three social classes in the Federate society. The majority of its citizens were _Verbundeten_ or Federates, similar to the blue-collar workers of twentieth-century Earth. One rung above were _Fachleute_ or Specialists who were better-educated, most possessing a university degree and holding a better-paying job. At the top of the ladder were the _Politikers_ or Politicals. These were citizens from either class who managed to claw their way up to the ladder to a position in the government where they enjoyed high pay and abundant luxuries at the State's expense.

"Don't blame you though. We're usually kept out of sight so as not to contaminate the rest of society." Nelson shrugged. "What are you then? A _Politiker_?"

"No. I'm just a _Fachleute_." Franks replied in what he thought would be interpreted as modesty. "My parents are both technical specialists with Ares."

"Ares as in the Ares Corporation?" It was finally Nelson's turn to gasp in surprise as the driver nodded, eyes still on the road. "Just a _Fachleute_? _Just_, you say? Damn, you must be loaded then! I was born a true blue _Verbundeten_, which is a far cry from all the creature comforts you must have grown up with. My old man was just a factory worker."

"I see . . ." Franks replied softly, unsure as to how to continue.

"What the hell is a kid like you doing in the _BundesArmee_?" It was Nelson who broke the silence once more.

"Well, it seemed like the right thing to do." Franks looked almost cherubic as he answered. "I mean, I guess I wanted to repay the State for the education and benefits it's given me by defending it against the Republicans. What about you and the _Feldwebel_?"

"Like I said, I've got no choice. It was either the army or some _gulag_. I got lucky. Most of my kind, those who don't end up on the wrong side of a _gulag_'s walls or a firing squad, end up in the infantry. And I do mean the regular infantry. No fancy exo suits for us."

"Most of your kind who I've met ought to be shot. Save the Federation a whole lot of trouble." Schneider commented humorlessly. "I guess we should consider ourselves mildly fortunate that you're barely tolerable."

"Now, you know I resent that, _Feldwebel_." Nelson grinned. "I just don't see why I should work so hard just so some lard-assed _Politiker_ can continue sip on Martian Red whenever he likes. Besides, if you shoot the lot of us, who's going to make up the _BundesArmee_? Our Boy Hero, here?"

"One of him would probably be worth a hundred of you." Schneider retorted. "They'd take up a lot less space and eat a lot less food."

"Oh, you're just jealous that you've worked your butt off and you're still a _Feldwebel_ while I'm a _Gerfreiter_ even though I'm slacking off."

"So why are you in, _Feldwebel_?" Franks directed the question at the vehicle commander, ignoring Nelson's comments.

"My parents were both miners till they died in an accident." Schneider explained. "There wasn't a great deal of money left for me to get an education so I decided to sign up with the _BundesArmee_. At the time, it was really attractive with food and accommodation included and free vocational training thrown in."

"Oh . . ." Franks' reply had an unspoken, incredulous and disappointed 'That's it?' attached to it.

"_Oh_," Nelson mimicked the young _Soldat_. "You were expecting the _Feldwebel_ to be some poster boy for the _BundesArmee_?"

"Well . . ."

"I'm just here to make a living." _Feldwebel_ Schneider said humbly. "The _BundesArmee_ provides for me and I keep my end of the bargain by defending the State. Nothing more and nothing less."

"Bravo. Spoken like a true patriot of the State." Nelson declared sardonically. "You see, boy. You've got to be desperate or crazy to join the _BundesArmee_ on your own free will. And if the _Feldwebel_ is desperate, I think you know where you stand."

"Hey . . ."

"Your parents weren't too thrilled about you enlisting now, were they?" Nelson continued, unwilling to give the driver a chance to formulate an angry retort.

"Funny that you should mention it, Lowe." Franks said thoughtfully, his anger momentarily forgotten. "Yes, they were telling me it wasn't worth it and stuff like that."

"Typical _Fachleute_ thinking. Pretty smart thinking too, if you ask me," the gunner shrugged. "But what do I know? I'm just an _Unbrauchbar_. Though I'd give you my two Marks worth if you asked me."

"I haven't asked and you've probably given me a small fortune as it is." Franks snapped.

"Whoa . . ." Nelson was genuinely surprised. The rookie was finally showing his claws. "Well, then. Here's just a bit more advice, belated as it may be. You want to hear it?"

"Do I have a choice?" Franks shrugged and sighed in resignation.

"Guess not." Nelson chuckled. "Though I don't normally advocate this, I'm going to make an exception today. You should have listened to your mommy, boy. Honest. You should have just stayed home instead of running off to play soldier."

Franks was in the midst of formulating a reply when a dull boom reached their ears even as they sat in their enclosed crew compartment.

"What the hell was that?" Nelson sat up suddenly, whole body tensed as he stared into his targeting scope.

"Franks, come about one-eighty now!" Schneider snapped, leaning forward in his seat to stare at the holographic displays lining his command cupola. The young driver sent the hovertank into a wide curving arc that led back in the direction that they had come. _He may be a young fool, but he sure can drive_, Nelson thought as he hung on to a nearby stanchion for support.

"Driver, stop! Look! At our one o' clock!" Schneider called out as he stared at his commander's display. The other two crewmembers were staring at the same thing through their scopes and vision slits.

Almost a thousand meters away from their current position, there was an expanding fireball. Jacking up the magnification for their assorted visual sensors, they could see a fireball expanding from the blown-out roof of a defensive emplacement. Raining down from the butterscotch sky were chunks of debris, the smaller, lighter bits spinning spectacularly in Mars' reduced gravity. Nelson thought he recognized several chunks as human body parts.

"_Mein gott_!" Franks exclaimed.

"Is that . . ." Nelson squinted in an effort to identify the outpost that had been violently destroyed.

"Damn, they got Bunker Eighteen." Schneider swore softly before getting on the radio to try and raise someone who could give some orders.

"Are those . . ." Franks gasped in horror at the shower of debris, inorganic and otherwise, swallowing audibly.

"Yes." Nelson nodded grimly as he watched the remnants of Bunker Eighteen and its occupants impacting onto the red dust. "You should have listened to your mommy and stayed home, boy."


	12. 012 Public Unawareness

**PUBLIC UNAWARENESS**

_**This so-called Free Republic will never endure. It is populated by misfits and malcontents who are far too selfish to forge a nation.**_

-Federal Prime Minister Emil Weil-

**31 DECEMBER 2212**

**VICINITY OF SIEGPUNKT, ARABIEN PRINCIPALITY,**

**MARTIAN FEDERATION, MARS**

Even in the lower pressure of the Martian atmosphere, the force and sound of the explosion that annihilated the bunker threw Andy Robinson several feet forward before pitching him into the rust-colored sand. Landing with a grunt, he allowed himself to roll to a stop before turning to survey his handiwork.

The bunker that his people had targeted was no more. Built to withstand frontal assaults, the rear walls had not been so thick and the troops that manned it had been too lax to keep an eye on the backdoor, allowing his people to take full advantage of the weaker rear construction.

The combination of shaped and satchel charges, applied liberally across the bunker's rear had blown in a huge chunk of wall, kicking off secondary explosions as the ready ammunition for the outpost's autocannons went up in flames.

Part of the roof had already caved in while the frontal wall had crumbled in several places. Clearly, the men who were 'safe' in the two levels situated under ground would be trapped under several tons of rubble.

His followers were whooping now from their hiding place in a shallow ravine. The bunker was beyond repair now, Robinson thought as he pulled himself to his feet. And if they were lucky, the rest of the garrison that hadn't been killed outright by the blast would die of suffocation long before their comrades could dig them out.

That's if their comrades would even bother, Robinson thought with a shudder. This was the Martian Federation he was fighting here. He silently wondered what was worse – the fact that he had put those helpless Federates in such a position, or the fact that their comrades probably wouldn't even bother trying to excavate them.

But that was of no matter now. He had been planning this raid for months, having quietly accumulated the explosives that it required. Now that he was carrying out the deed, the last thing he needed was to be distracted by such random musings.

He signaled to his compatriots in the ravine and saw two of the red-cloaked militia troopers rising to their feet, carrying an innocuous-looking metal case between them. Even in the reduced gravity of Mars, his people struggled with the box.

Glancing at his chronometer, he allowed himself a slight smile. They were still on schedule. The months of planning were finally paying off. So far, his lookouts hadn't indicated much in the way of a response from the Feddies in the neighboring outposts or OstWand itself.

With his troopers struggling to come up with the metal case, Andy trotted back towards to the shattered wreck of the bunker where the flames were already dying out in the low-pressure environment of Mar's fledging biosphere.

As he approached, his eyes caught a glimpse of movement amidst the rubble and smoke. A lone Federate solider, his heavy combat dress scorched and shredded, stumbled out through one of the openings blown into the bunker's side, scattering loose bits of concrete as he did so. The man hadn't been wearing his helmet, protective goggles or rebreather mask when the explosion had destroyed his outpost and his breath fogged as it reached the frigid Martian air.

Robinson took a moment take in the man's face. He couldn't have been any older than twenty, though he couldn't be sure since there were burns covering part of his face. The soldier paused at the foot of the bunker as he noticed Robinson watching him and began to grab desperately for the rifle that had miraculously remain slung behind his back.

Andy's own surprise gave way so glee as he watched his opponent tussle with the rifle as the low pressure, freezing temperatures and choking dust conspired against the desperate survivor. In one fluid motion, Andy unslung his own rifle and brought it up to his shoulder flicking the selector switch from 'safe' to 'semi' before looking through the front sight.

_Too late_. _I win_.

His opponent realized this and paused, as if wondering if he should give up and surrender. But Robinson decided to solve the man's quandary by squeezing the trigger. The rifle bucked once against his shoulder, its report drowned out by the roar of secondary explosions from the bunker's ammunition stores. A fountain of blood exploded out of the Federate trooper's neck and he pitched backwards onto the ground, hands still entangled with the rifle sling.

Seeing that his foe wasn't going to get up again, he lowered the rifle and exhaled slowly. He waited as last of the secondary explosions died away before gripping his rifle in the high-ready position once more just in case there were anymore survivors.

Nothing moved amidst the rubble.

"Good shot, boss." One of the men carrying the metal case said as he finally caught up with the militia commander. "You had me worried for a second though."

Robinson turned and nodded, recognizing the voice if not the gait of Sepp Steinmetz, his most trusted lieutenant. They had known each other for years, having established the 3rd Isidis Planitia Guards together before going on to conduct countless penetrations into Federate territory.

While Robinson had the cash and the charisma to provide the ideological leadership and horsepower for the militia unit, it was Sepp who had the military experience to turn the men and women of the Third from Republican citizens simply exercising their rights to weapon ownership into lethal warriors adept at infiltration techniques.

"Well, he's dead and I'm not." Robinson shrugged, looking down as if to study his rifle. Though it certainly wasn't the first time that he had killed someone, Andy's heart wasn't as hardened as Sepp's.

Unlike his companion, Robinson didn't actually enjoy the killing. Still, he had to put up a stoic front, at least for the man who was helping Sepp with the case.

As if on cue, young Kopinski piped up as he and Sepp grunt past with the heavy load straddled between them. "We've really done it this time, Commander!"

Even though the young man's eyes were hidden by protective goggles and his voice muffled by his rebreather mask, there was no disguising the junior militia trooper's glee. "Oh, them Feddies are going to be so mad now."

"Well, let's move a bit faster so they will be the only ones who will be mad." Sepp said in a slightly threatening tone, looking first to the newbie, then to their commander and then back to Kopinski.

Kopinski seemed to take the hint well enough and hastened to keep pace with Sepp who was now crossing the last few meters to the wreckage of the Federate bunker. Robinson glanced at his wrist-mounted chronometer, then back at the two men who had finally set down their heavy burden and starting to work.

"Make it fast, Sepp. Slow as the Feddies may be, they won't take forever to get their act together." Andy said cautiously as he scanned the nearby landscape for signs of Federate reaction.

He needn't have to. Two of his people were already scanning the nearest outposts as well as OstWand for any sign of activity that may be threatening to their mission.

"Relax, boss. I've done this sort of thing dozens of times." Sepp replied laconically as he retrieved a blocky-looking device from the metal carrying case.

_So have I_, Andy wanted to add though he had remained silent. There was no use disagreeing with his right-hand man now. Not when others were watching. It wasn't that Sepp was being dishonest. Indeed, neither one of them was new to raids within Federate borders.

But never had they been so bold as too strike within sight of OstWand nor their objectives so ambitious. It was the greatest cross-border operation the Third had ever attempted and things were beginning to prove that not even the infamous Commander Robinson was immune to the anxiety that went with overseeing such a nerve-racking mission so far from home.

He tried to focus his mind on other things as Sepp and Kopinski worked on preparing their 'surprise' for the follow-up troops that were sure to arrive soon. He found it ironic that here he was in the midst of his most spectacular raid ever, more worried than ever before.

But he tried to rationalize that it was all understandable. After all, he and his team were only six in number. Sepp and Kopinski were hard at work while Torres and Gormley were keeping watch. The last member of their team, Quentin, was two kilometers away with their getaway vehicle.

With the five he had on hand, including himself, Robinson had just disabled five times that number without loss. Even against the Federation, that was simply too good to be true. And it almost always was.

Not all of his missions had gone off so smoothly. Ever since he and Sepp formed the Third, he had lost nearly fifty of his fighting men and women. Some were killed in rare firefights with Federate regulars, while many others had been killed while caught in enemy territory.

People like Sepp, Gormley and Quentin were all old hands who knew that it was a very bad idea to get caught in a firefight with the Federates. Kopinski and Torres were a different breed altogether. Born after the last Martian war, they viewed the Federation in the manner that a mischievous schoolboy would a strict headmaster - powerful, but easily avoidable. Robinson knew that the Federates only needed to find them once, and after that, people would start to die.

The thought of his men and women dying over the years brought a fresh wave of anger. He didn't understand why the Martian Free Republic could tolerate the existence of the Federation. After so many official wars and many more years of low intensity conflict, he thought it would be clear to everyone that the two Martian nations could not co-exist.

When the Martian Elevator was first built, many of his traitorous countrymen thought it heralded a new era of peaceful and perhaps even prosperous co-existence. Recruitment for the Third, even with its location in the anti-Federation Isidis Planitia, had actually fallen, much to his dismay. Thus, it was with a great sense of vindication that Robinson saw all futile hopes of peaceful tolerance collapse along with the Elevator in 2210.

In the aftermath of the disaster, the ranks of the militia grew once more and Robinson welcomed a new wave of recruits like Kopinski and Torres. People who were driven by fear of the future, more than past hatreds of the Federation. Not all of them wanted to fight the Federation. Some came in search of adventure, others were simply fed up with the Free Republic.

Yet, many of the young men and women who had joined were those who had finally chosen to heed the warnings of their elders – that the Federation was simply using the peace to build itself up for the next war.

And that next war was coming very soon.

_How long_? Robinson asked himself as he glanced at the pair working amidst the bunker's ruins. _How long before the Republic awakens to the danger_? How much more did he have to do to make his fellow Republicans realized that the Federation was planning their downfall everyday?

A long time ago, he may have measured the cost in the number of people he lost. But he had hardened himself to that now. He knew what needed to be done. It was no longer a question of how many he lost, but of how many he killed. The sooner he could provoke and overt action from the Federates, the sooner his people would realize that there could be no peace between the Federation and the Republic.

And the sooner the Republic realized that and mobilized, the less time the Federates would have to bring their invasion plans to fruition. The Federation may have been a slow, monolithic organization, but it would be foolish to give it all the time it needed to complete its plans.

_No_, Robinson told himself firmly. _This _has_ to go on_. Even if it meant putting his troopers in ever greater danger. They all knew the risks when they joined up. They were the true patriots. And if necessary, they would be martyrs as well. They would keep on fighting even if their counterparts in the regular Free Ranger forces refused to see reason. They would keep on fighting until such a time that open warfare became unavoidable.

And that would be the final vindication for Andy Robinson, who had been labeled an extremist and a terrorist for so long.

When the Federation troops would finally and inevitably come pouring across the border, Andy knew he would lead his people in the defense alongside the regular troops in the climatic battle they all sought.

It would be their grand opportunity to wipe out the Federate threat once and for all.

There and then, he would finally have the right to tell everyone 'I told you so'.

But for now, he would content himself with the little that he was doing.

Sepp and Kopinski were coming back towards him now, just as Torres was signaling the approach of _Bundesarmee_ reinforcements.

_So far_, _so good_. Robinson smiled.

Now all they had to do was escape so that they would live to see the day that their goal would be achieved.


	13. 013 Closer to the Brink

**CLOSER TO THE BRINK**

_Si vis pacem, para bellum. (Let him who desires peace prepare for war.)_

-Flavius Vegetius, Roman military strategist-

**31 DECEMBER 2212**

**VICINITY OF SIEGPUNKT, ARABIEN PRINCIPALITY**

**MARTIAN FEDERATION, MARS**

The Isidians were finally moving again. Even with his binoculars, Shawn could only catch fleeting glimpses as the militia troopers scurried through the ravine. The explosion that had torn the bunker asunder had come as a shock to Shawn. Even in the lower air pressure environment of Mars, the blast had been deafening. Clearly, it had not been the work of a single, large explosive charge, but rather several strategically-placed ones designed to bring the entire structure down instead of simply breaching it.

Shawn almost felt sorry for the Federate soldiers who must have been trapped under tons of rubble. Even in the reduced gravity of Mars, clearing enough of the debris for any survivors to escape was going to be a major effort. And then he suddenly felt angry. Not so much with the Isidians but with himself. His decision not to open fire at the militia had probably allowed them to pull off their lethal caper and now they were retiring as quickly as they could.

The hovertanks that had been gliding back towards OstWand had broken formation as they came swinging about. The single file column had given way to an offensive line abreast formation. But other than that, the tanks had remained still. Whoever was in charge of those armoured behemoths had probably deduced that hovertanks were of little use against hidden querillas.

OstWand had come alive as well, with a plethora of searchlight beams knifing into the sky. Shawn could imagine the cacophony of alarms and frantic announcements that were filling the enclosed environs of the base, probably throwing the gathered officers and their evening companions into a panic and ruining their ongoing celebrations.The gates to the base were open now and scores of soldiers were rushing to man the defensive positions around these access points. Dozens of APCs, loaded with troops, were already fanning out of the base in an effort to run down the saboteurs if they were still in the area.

"Damn it, sir, you should have just let me waste the bastards when we had the chance." Jung hissed, cradling her sniper rifle in her hands. "We could have stopped them."

Shawn didn't answer. Instead, his eyes averted the harsh, cold glare of his team sniper. Realizing that her team leader wasn't going to give her an answer, Jung turned away angrily. She shouldered her weapon and put her eye to the telescopic sight. "Fine, if you're not going to complete the mission, then I will!"

"Stand down, Jung!" Lainer yelled as loudly as he dared. "That's an order!"

"Or what?" Jung's face was contorted in anger. "Whose side are you on anyway?"

Shawn Lainer bit back an angry reply and fixed his wayward sniper with a penetrating glare. "Jung, you so much as fire one shot. Just one shot, and I'll have you up on charges."

Timmins was looking at the ground while Ulandi looked away towards OstWand Base. Lainer didn't shift his gaze.

"We could have got them, sir." Jung grated. "We could have nailed them before they blew up the bunker."

"And what, leave the Feds a bunch of Republican corpses laden with explosives so that they can show them off to the media for the evening bulletin?" Lainer snapped. "Use your head, Jung! If I had thought it smart to kill them, I would have given the order ages ago. You know that, Jung."

"But sir, they blew up the bunker. That's going to make the Feds mad!" Jung grip tightened on the rifle's pistol grip. "That's an act of war! We're supposed to stop that from happening, sir!"

"Jung, our being here can be construed as an act of war." Lainer pointed out. "I know what our mission orders are. Hell, I would have stopped them if there was some chance of doing it covertly. But we can't. Not now."

The sniper's finger slipped outside the trigger guard and she looked at her team leader, grim-faced. Lainer knew that Jung hated the Isidians seperatists almost as much as she hated the Feds. To her, they were traitors to the Republic who deserved nothing more than a bullet to the head. While the Republic government officially considered the Isidians a separate nations of sorts, the Federation didn't care and was far too ready to blame the Republic for Isidian excesses. Lainer knew that there were many Republicans who considered the breakaway Republicans as a far more sinister threat than the Federation.

"You know I'm right, Jung." Lainer said quietly looking down at the red Martian soil. "I wish I wasn't, but you know I am."

Jung nodded wordlessly and looked away. It was Ulandi's turn to speak after a nervous cough. "What do we do now, boss? We can't shoot them militia and the whole place is crawling with Feds."

"It's a long trek back to the extraction point, boss." Timmins added. "With long stretches of open ground."

"Then it's pretty clear that we shouldn't go running around in the open." Lainer said to his people as he sank to his suit's knees to continue watching the scenes of chaos below.

"Laying low, sir?" Jung verbalized the one thought that was in everyone's mind.

"Doesn't look like there's any other way for now." Lainer mumbled as he continued to watch Federate troops swarming towards the demolished bunker. "Nowhere else we can go with all these Feds milling around."

"Boss, you better take a look at this . . ." Timmins said and Lainer got to his feet before moving over to where the man with the rocket launcher was position. His eyes tracked in the direction where Timmins was pointing and used his helmet's in-built magnification enhancements to get a clearer view of what he was looking at.

He could see a Federate buggy, the kind used for maintenance and bunker supply runs around bases like Ostwand. It was curving in a wide arc across the Martian landscape, seemingly without any purpose. Until Lainer spotted what Timmins was really pointing at. Hunkering in a shallow defile in the ground were the militia troopers. But from the way the buggy was swinging towards them, it was clear that they had already been spotted.

"Crap . . ." Lainer gasped as he studied the buggy. It has a two-man crew and a very nasty-looking pintle-mounted machine-gun in the passenger's seat. It was doubtful that the militia could really match that sort of firepower, let alone try to outrun something so fast. And if the buggy was calling in reinforcements, then those Isidians were as good as dead.

"Boss?" Timmins asked, anxious for a decision from his team leader.

Lainer looked at the hiding militia troopers and then at the approaching buggy. He knew these buggies well. Normally, they didn't have in-built radios. This was so that Federate soldiers could not try to make contact with Republican troops if they tried to defect. Of course, that was not to say that no one tried. After all, without any way to maintain contact, several Federate soldiers had defected over the years, taking their chances with trigger-happy Republican border guards. However, just because the buggy didn't have its own radio didn't mean that the crew did not.

"Range?" Lainer asked, pained at having to consider the use of deadly force that would reveal his position to the Federates.

"Too far for this baby." Timmins indicated to his rocket launcher. "Damn, I wish we had an Ares gun with us."

"Well, we don't." Lainer snapped ruefully. He made a mental note to acquire an Ares gun for Timmins the next time they went out on a mission. He stared at the drama unfolding below and knew that he had to act fast if he wanted to intervene. "Jung, get your ass up here now!"

The sniper was up in a flash, her exo suit crossing the short distance in a heartbeat. "Boss?"

"Target buggy, six hundred meters. Take the driver." Lainer said in a voice that was devoid of emotion.

"You want me to take a shot?" Jung sounded surprised.

"Hurry up!" The Scout leader was not in the mood for any discussion. "And don't miss!"

"Sir!" Jung nodded and brought her Gyroc sniper rifle up, bracing herself against the rocks in front of her. The buggy was getting closer now and the militia, were beginning to panic, realizing that they had been spotted for sure. The gunner was already preparing his weapon. "A head shot, sir?"

"Just shoot!"

"On it." Jung replied frigidly and an instant later, the rifle coughed once. The rocket-assisted round screamed through the thin Martian air before impacting against its target. Through his magnified view, Lainer saw the buggy driver's head explode in a geyser of blood, bone and brain. Slumping over onto his side, with his hands still on the wheel, the buggy tumbled out of control and cartwheeled several times before sliding to a halt in a twisted, mangled pile.

"Good shot, Jung." Lainer said, without looking at his sniper. "Hold fire."

"Yes, sir." Jung grated.

The militia rose out of their hiding place and searched around for their mysterious savior before their leader signaled them to move on. As his men moved out towards the border, the militia leader turned once more, looking directly at where the Republican Scouts were hiding. Whether or not the Isidian could really see them, Lainer wasn't sure, but the moment passed and the militia leader was on the move again.

_We'll meet again_, Lainer swore as he watched the back of the retreating Isidians. _And next time, we may not be saving you_.

The buggy's gunner, miraculously still alive, was just extricating himself from the wreck of his vehicle when the militia past him. Six weapon muzzles winked in unison and the dazed and hapless Federate trooper collapsed into the sand, legs still trapped in the mangled wreckage. Lainer forced himself to look away from the fleeing militia troopers. He could feel Jung's frustration at not being able on open fire on them.

"We'd better looking for a safe place to hide." Lainer said without flourish. "We'll have to wait till all this excitement dies down before we can make a run for the border."

"Well, knowing the Feds, they'd give up after a couple of hours or so." Timmins said optimistically. "And we've got the supplies to last."

The Scout team leader nodded and looked back at the wrecked bunker. There were half a dozen vehicles parked around it and close to half a company of troopers trying to move the rubble to get to their comrades who were trapped inside. But he knew it was going to take for more than that if they wanted to get through the debris fast enough. There was a sudden flurry of activity on the ground and Lainer could see several men gesturing wildly as they began to run from the bunker.

Before he could ask himself what was going on, a series of explosions, far more powerful than the ones that had destroyed the bunker, erupted and engulfed the men who were unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity. So powerful was the blast that a nearby APC had been picked up and hurled onto its side. Bits and pieces of men and machine went spinning through the air and even from their sheltered position, the Republican Scouts felt the blast wave slamming into their exo suits.

"Oh, damn!" Jung gasped involuntarily as the spectacle unfolding before her. Scores of broken bodies lay around the bunker which had been reduced to a series of craters.

"Them Feds are going to be really pissed off at us now." Timmins drawled. "Looks like we won't be going home so soon after all.

"Alright, can the chatter, people." Lainer snapped, clearing his head. "Let's move out while we still can. Ulandi, you're on point."

Ulandi nodded wordlessly, picked up his chaingun and began to stalk his way through the rocks, seeking a place where they could all hole up until things quieted down enough for them to exfiltrate towards the border.

Lainer spared Ostwand one final glance. The whole base was coming truly alive with fighters even launching out of the aerodome to join the search and another full Obergrupen of hovertanks were deploying to comb the area. The Feds would really be out for blood this time. And it was all because he had not accomplished his mission. Lainer wrestled with the bitter taste of failure. Because of him, the Federation and the Republic now one step closer to the brink of war.

But there would be time to think of that later. Right now, he simply needed to get away before he and his team were caught. And that, he knew would just be yet another step in the wrong direction for both Martian nations.


	14. 014 Stern Chase

**STERN CHASE**

_I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast, for I intend to go in harm's way._

-John Paul Jones-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**CSS _ZENSEN_, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT **

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

The muted roar of the engines going to maximum burn was finally making itself felt in the cramped command bridge of the CSS _Zensen_ and a collective sigh of relief passed through the anxious crew members.

There were many ways to hide things in an organization as monolithic as the CEGA Navy, but there was no concealing the fact that the CSS _Zensen_ was a vessel that had clearly passed her prime sometime ago.

For a tense moment, the hull groaned as the ship accelerated. It was almost as if the _Tengu_-class escort carrier was resisting its crew's attempts to make her go any faster.

Then the noise from the tortured hull faded away and another more pronounced sigh of relief sounded on the _Zensen's_ bridge. It was almost as if everyone was thankful for the fact that they were even around to sigh.

_At least our drives didn't just quit on us like the last time_, Lieutenant Commander Kallie Chang reflected darkly as she monitored the ship's status from her workstation. _Trust the dockyard geniuses to upgrade our vehicle capacity and not give a damn about the drives . . ._

At least they were under thrust now, Kallie thought consolingly to herself. That was a damn sight better than what she had been expecting from the hunk of junk that had been her home for almost a month.

As the First Officer of the CSS _Zensen_, it was her job to oversee the smooth running of the vessel on a daily basis. Additionally, she would be on the bridge whenever the captain wasn't. And aboard the _Zensen_, with Captain Roger Enfield commanding, that meant Chang was on the bridge most of the time.

Enfield was already into his fifties and had been stuck patrolling the space lanes in the dilapidated escort carrier for close to six years now. Considering that most CEGA ship captains spent no more than two years commanding their vessels before moving on, that said quite a bit about the state of his career.

Kallie didn't want to try guessing who he had pissed off in the past to end up in such a predicament. Rumors abounded, of course, though none were particularly conclusive. And none were particular pleasant considering that he was her predicament now. The man himself was an idiot, living a life of limited luxury and detachment from the rest of the crew, delegating all tasks to his First Officer and the various department heads.

The lack of a skipper who looked out for the needs of his ship and crew had palpable effects which Kallie had witnessed in her weeks as First Officer of the _Zensen_. Spare parts had been hard to come by before their departure from Earth orbit and crew assignments were anything but the CEGA's finest.

_Zensen_ was relatively low in priority where resupply and refit were concerned as well and she was surprise they had been allowed to deploy at all, considering the ship's overall readiness level.

And so it was with her far-from-perfect maintenance record that _Zensen_ embarked on her latest patrol, only to be separated from her destroyer escort barely one week into the deployment. The situation was further compounded when Captain Enfield somehow managed to offend the amiable Captain Mifune whom Enfield sent back to base to base to pick up replacement drive components to belatedly fix _Zensen's_ ailing drive system.

It had been more than a week since they last saw the _Hachiman_ destroyer escort CSS _Yawata_ and Kallie was beginning to suspect that Captain Mifune was deliberately dragging his feet. Not that she would have blamed him. Most of _Zensen's_ crew wouldn't think twice if they had been given the chance to legally place their captain on the wrong side of an airlock without a spacesuit. But word had it that _Yawata_ would finally be joining them before the day was over.

Not that it would have mattered since the patrol had been completely uneventful.

Until now . . .

Now, the _Zensen's_ ancient drives were being run flat out as the escort carrier roared in pursuit of a suspected STRIKE vessel fleeing towards the Belt. Joint Services Intelligence had identified the _Solar Wanderer_ (if that was even her real name), a heavily-modified _Inari_-class liner as a vessel modified for use by the elusive terrorist organization.

Apparently a _Bricriu_-class corvette had stopped the _Wanderer_ on a routine customs spot check just as the JSI warning had gone out. The _Wanderer_ then feigned communications difficulties, claiming inability to fully receive the CEGA vessel's demands. When the corvette tried to close to initiate a boarding operation, it came under fire from previously concealed weapons emplacements. Taken by surprise, the CEGA had been left crippled while the _Wanderer_ made good her escape.

The brass were calling them STRIKE terrorists, but it sounded more like the average, desperate smuggler to Kallie. The bigshots have a habit of branding most piratical and smuggler scum as STRIKE operatives. Good for morale, Kallie thought darkly. Puts a face to highly effective terrorists whom we've never really caught and whose motives are never quite known . . .

"Contact, contact," the sensors operator called out as he hunched over his console. "I'm holding one steady sensor contact dead ahead. Range eleven hundred klicks."

"On the main display, please." Lieutenant Commander Chang spoke, shaken from her reverie. She had barely finished speaking when a miniaturized version of a sensor repeater display appeared up on the spherical display that wrapped around the bridge crew. Their quarry was highlighted in red, with heading and velocity information scrolling next to the blip.

"She's pretty hot on the infrared. Not trying to hide. Just plain running," came the update from the sensor operator.

"And wasting a whole lot of re-mass." Zensen's First Officer observed. No, these weren't STRIKE operatives for sure. They were just too stupid. "Sensors, is she what we're looking for?"

"Signature's about right . . . Yes, she's definitely an _Inari_. And there aren't any more of those around . . ." The sensor operator shrugged. "Funny that they didn't even try to change course. They just kept on running after shooting up the Bric. Not very smart for STRIKE terrorists, eh, ma'am?"

"No, not smart at all. Looks like HQ is chasing phantoms again." Chang sighed as she studied the sensor contact. It was still burning reaction mass like crazy and _Zensen_ was straining to catch up.

True, _Zensen_ had better acceleration, but the _Wanderer_ had been thrusting for a lot longer and _Zensen's_ drives weren't exactly first rate. That they had even managed to get within sensor range so quickly was due more to _Zensen's_ fortuitous positioning rather than the skill of the escort carrier's crew. "Ivan, could you inform the Skipper that we may have found what we're looking for?"

"Yes, ma'am." Ensign Ivan Chuikov, the communications operator on duty replied crisply. "Right away, ma'am."

"Oh, and it would be nice if you could extend my invitation to Captain Enfield to join us on the bridge now that we have finally located our target."

The young Ensign's features creased slightly to reveal a wry smile and Chang noted several similar looks on the faces of the other bridge crew. She had never imagined herself maligning a superior officer until she had met Enfield.

She pushed thoughts of _Zensen's_ inept captain aside and tried to focus on the task at hand. With _Zensen_ charging up from behind with its active sensors pinging away, the _Wanderer_ was bound to have detected them by now.

Ideally, whoever was in command of the fleeing vessel would realize what he or she was up against and finally quit running. It wouldn't be half as exciting, but at least they would save on reaction mass. And there was also the decreased likelihood of their reactor going critical and atomizing them all.

"So we've found the STRIKE scum now, have we?" Everyone cringed collectively as a voice that had not been heard on the bridge in nearly a week filtered through the doors that slid open.

Captain Enfield was a short, scrawny and irascible fellow who possess the rare ability to annoy everyone he came into contact with. Even after having the most frequent dealings with the man out of the entire ship's complement, she wasn't sure what she disliked most about him.

Maybe it was how he was simply so flippant towards his duties as Captain of the _Zensen_. Maybe it was his arrogant attitude toward anyone junior to him in rank. Or perhaps it was the way he didn't think anyone could seriously challenge the CEGA. It was a vicious cycle, Kallie thought. Since Enfield did little to prove himself, _Zensen_ would be relegated to low-threat, routine patrols of shipping lanes where they were unlikely run into anything more than the occasional pirate or smuggler.

Perhaps what Kallie Chang hated most about her commander was the fact that he was a spineless poseur who played the part of the dashing champion of the CEGA that he was not.

Sometimes, she wondered if her captain was lost in his own world or was truly stupid enough to think himself such a good actor. Swallowing her anger, she rotated in her seat to face Enfield as he floated awkwardly towards his command chair located in the centre of the bridge sphere. He looked slightly flushed and she tried to ignore the light odor of alcohol about him as he strapped in clumsily.

"How sure are we that she's the _Wanderer_, Chang?" Enfield asked as he finally managed to secure himself into the seat.

"No other ships of the class have been detected in the area. And as far as we know, no _Inaris_ are scheduled to be in the area for another four hours." Chang replied, peeved that the Captain would acknowledge her as the First Officer, addressing her by her surname instead.

"Is she running?"

"Aye, Skipper. She's still running." The First Officer confirmed.

"Then it's the STRIKE scum." Enfield declared simplistically.

Chang cleared her throat tentatively then said, "It's hard to believe this bunch of amateurs are really STRIKE terrorists."

"They're terrorists, Chang." Enfield declared with a sweeping motion of his arm that almost pitched him out of his seat if it weren't for the harness that held him back. "They're supposed to be amateurs."

"Sir," Chang almost wanted to ask the Captain if he was drunk but he seemed to steady himself with extreme effort and he looked lucid enough to take the question as grievous insult rather than concern expressed by his First Officer. "They haven't changed course since they shot up the Bric and ran. They've made no attempt to hide. They're just running flat out."

"So? They're just a stupid bunch of terrorists who panicked after making the mistake of taking on the CEGA Navy." Enfield replied haughtily. "I'm sure you don't doubt the reliability of our JSI's efforts now, do you?"

Chang found herself grinding her teeth and forcing her frustration back inside her. "What are your orders, Captain?"

"Comms, hail them." Enfield said crisply, dispelling the illusion that he was hopelessly intoxicated. "Let them know we're here and tell them they had better heave to and prepared to be board. All that usual jazz, yeah?"

"Aye aye, Skipper," the Ensign replied precisely, his tone betraying none of the sentiment he felt for his commander. "What should I tell them if they refuse to stop?"

"You tell them that I will take savage delight in using their vessel as target practice for my missile crews."

"Aye, sir,"

"Attention civilian _Inari_, this is the CSS _Zensen_. We are currently coming up your stern. Heave to and prepare to be boarded." Chuikov was saying into his headset mike. "Civilian _Inari_, this is the CSS _Zensen_, acknowledge please."

Chuikov made several more attempts, the mood on the bridge growing tauter with each unanswered query.

"Weapons, prepare your missiles for launch." Enfield said calmly.

"Uh, Captain . . ." Kallie looked over her shoulder at Zensen's commander. "Shouldn't we scramble our exos. A couple of laser bolts across the bow would be more economical than using our missile bay."

"Economical?" Enfield laughed. It was a sound that made Kallie's hair stand. "How is scrambling a pair of exos any more economical? I'm not going to risk them to return fire."

"But, Captain . . ." Chang was wondering whether she ought to lecture her captain on the proper employment of a carrier and its embarked exos but Enfield was having none of that.

"Besides, Chang." The slick, oily quality in the Captain's tone made Chang's blood go cold. "Whatever gave you the impression that I was going to fire a warning shot?"

Chang heard a sharp intake of breath across the bridge and she was about to explode forth in protest when the communications operator beat her to it.

"Captain!" Chuikov cried out suddenly. "Target is broadcasting!"

"Then put me through, Comms!" Enfield said impatiently, sounding almost unhappy that the freighter had chosen to communicate. He would have been more than happy to destroy the fleeing vessel. "What are you waiting for?"

"She's not signaling _us_, Skipper." Chuikov said sheepishly.

"Not . . . signaling us?" Enfield repeated, failing to comprehend. "What . . ."

Chuikov hit a switch a panicked voice filtered through the speakers though the video output remained blank.

". . . day! Requesting immediate assistance from all receivers! Repeat. Mayday, mayday! This is the _Solar Wanderer_! SOS! SOS! Requesting immediate assistance. All receivers, please home in on this signal . . ."

"Damn it, Ensign!" Enfield roared as he thumped the armrest on his command chair. "What are you waiting for? Jam that transmission now!"

"Aye, Skipper!"

"Captain," Chang began. "About the exos . . ."

"Fine, fine, fine!" Enfield threw his hands aside in an angry gesture. "Bring us to Readiness Four and get the ready exos out there now!"


	15. 015 Belt Encounter

**BELT ENCOUNTER**

_**Bad news is not like fine wine – it does not improve with age. **_

-General Creighton Abrams-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**BRIDGE, JSS _FORGE_, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT**

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

"That's odd . . ." Corporal Amanda Loh frowned, tapping her headset as she did. She shifted uneasily in her seat as her fingers flew over her keyboard a little more rapidly. She was almost certain that she had been daydreaming at her station when she thought she heard a message that roused her from her midday reverie.

As a communications operator, she had the task of handling all communications in and out of the JSS _Forge_. In addition to that, she would also be eavesdropping on any stray signals that her communications gear could glean from the space surrounding the patrol carrier.

But out here in the vast expanse of the Asteroid Belt, away from the heavily-traveled space lanes located in the Inner System and between the Trojan States, there were precious few ships to encounter and exchange greetings with.

Since her shift had started almost two hours ago, she had spoken exactly twice to vessels passing within communications range of the _Forge_. One had been a Nomad prospector's vessel and the other had been a Jovian-registered freighter hauling a cargo of ice to Olympus. And as for eavesdropping, her headset had remained absolutely silent.

Until a few seconds ago.

Pressing her headset closer to her ears, she hit the playback button and reviewed the recording from her communications log for the last minute. For a moment, there was the soft, reassuring hiss of recorded nothingness. She upped the volume for her headphones and still heard nothing. A relieved smile began to form on her lips. She was almost glad that she had been mistaken.

And then she heard _it_.

The static-laced message was crackling so loudly in her ears that she winced and almost tore the headset from her ears in shock. Mindful that the captain was watching, she managed to steady herself before she did anything further to attract unwanted attention and she listened to the message once more before it was cut off again.

She frowned. On her last tour with the JSS _Brock_, she had been a trainee communications operator as the destroyer patrolled the Belt. She had heard her fair share of distress calls, resulting from pirate activity as well as genuine misadventure.

She had seen the aftermath when the _Brock_ arrived too late and she had also experienced coming under fire when the _Brock_ arrived in time to disrupt pirates and raiders in the midst of their nefarious deeds. She had heard enough distress calls to know one when she heard one.

But she knew that the captain would expect a more detailed report from her. Simply stating that she had picked up a distress call was not enough. She needed to know where it was coming from and why. And right now, she didn't have anything to answer those questions with.

And that bothered her. She wanted to believe that the distress call was an authentic one. But there wasn't much information to go on. It sounded genuine enough, with the sender sounding convincingly panicky.

But there had been some stories of the Earthers luring overly-helpful Jovian ships into traps out here in the Belt. Even though the two nations were not at war, they could always find some excuse or another to fire on each other every once in awhile. If one side could make a warship from the other nation 'disappear' amongst the asteroids, then it was all the better.

Something wasn't right and she could feel it. There was a sense of great unease as she pursed her lips, contemplating the contents of the message as she replayed it once more.

"That's odd . . ." she repeated as the recorded message ended yet again. Amidst the hushed activity on _Forge's_ bridge, her distinctively loud voice had cut through the murmur of other voices on the bridge and the two nearest bridge crew turned to glance at her inquiringly. There was a barely audible clearing of a throat sounding from behind her.

"Something wrong, Comms?" Captain Lynette Polwalski inquired simply from her command chair located in the center of the spherical command bridge. Realizing that she had spoken too loud, and unable to avoid the question, the brunette communications operator turned nervously to face the _Forge's_ skipper.

Captain Polwalski was new, this being her first command tour. But she was already establishing a reputation for herself as a firm, no-nonsense, go-getter commander who knew how to complete any tasked assigned to her. Her sharp, scowling features and austere eyes demanded immediacy from her communications operator. "You have something to report?"

"Uh, a distress call, Captain . . . from a vessel calling herself the . . . _'Solar Wanderer_'. Not one of ours." Amanda replied haltingly, still unsure of how to deliver her incomplete report.

"When?" Polwalski asked curtly.

"Just, Captain. I'd say it was sent less than a minute ago." Amanda replied with a little more confidence now.

"What's wrong with her?" The Captain was asking questions in her trademark, rapid-fire manner.

"I don't know, ma'am . . ." Amanda swallowed, recoiling slightly and expecting some harsh words of admonishment from her superior. "They didn't say . . ."

"Where?"

"I-I don't know. N-No position data was sent." Amanda stammered in reply. "Close, I think."

"You _think_?" was the Captain's scathing response.

"The message was cut off halfway, Captain."

"Fine." Polwalski nodded curtly. "You have a recording?"

"Of course, Captain." Amanda almost pouted at the perceived implication that she had not been doing her job.

"You're wasting time. Put it on now."

"Aye, Skipper!" Amanda replied, gratefully returning her gaze to her console as her cheeks burned with embarrassment. A moment later, the recording of the distress call filtered through overhead speakers, putting a halt to all conversation on the bridge and diverting all attention away from her reddening features.

". . . ayday! Requesting immediate assistance from all receivers! Repeat. Mayday, mayday! This is the _Solar Wanderer_! SOS! SOS! Requesting immediate assistance. All receivers, please home in on this signal . . ."

"You can give us a heading to work on?" Captain Polwalski query sounded more like a statement. The mood on the bridge had changed. The routine chatter was mostly gone and most of the bridge crew had part of their attention devoted to the exchange between their captain and the young communication's operator, expecting to go into action at any time.

"I can try . . ."Amanda hesitated as she worked the controls at her workstation.

"Then do it." Captain Polwalski's features furrowed deeply as she detected the communication operator's delay. "Something else, Corporal?"

"Something about the way that the message was cut off, ma'am. All that static." Amanda pursed her lips and rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "It was gradual. Sort of. Just not as sudden as you would expect of a ship exploding or something like that."

"Meaning?" The _Forge's_ captain asked impatiently.

"There was interference, lots of it . . ." Amanda trailed off slightly before withering under her commanding officer's harsh gaze. She swallowed before continuing. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say they were being jammed."

"Jammed . . ." The JAF captain stroked her jaw slowly, eyes hooded as she contemplated what she her communications operator was telling her. The captain tapped a stud on her command chair and spoke into the lip mike attached to her headset. "Flight Control, update the position of our CAP now. On my screen, please."

A heartbeat later, the main display on the spherical ceiling of the bridge switched to show the JSS _Forge_ at the center of a representation of space. Two blue arrows flashed, indicating the location of the carrier's combat aerospace patrol.

"Comms, I need that projection yesterday."

Amanda's fingers flew back to work and for several tense seconds she felt near-panic as they Captain's eyes bored into her back, waiting for a response. Finally, she struck a few final keys and a yellow arrow symbol appeared somewhere ahead of the _Forge_. The CAP was currently occupying a position 'above' and ahead of the carrier. They could swoop in for a closer look before _Forge_ could get into range.

"Who do we have on CAP?"

"Officers Chan and Kok." Amanda answered. "Callsign Watchdog."

"Thank you, Comms." Polwalski replied somewhat hurriedly as she thumbed the stud on her command chair again. "Flight Control, vector Watchdog in to take a closer look. Tell them to hurry but be careful. It might be a trap."

There was a short pause as Polwalski waited for Flight Control's reply. Then she keyed another button. "Flight Deck, put the Ready-5 craft on Ready-0 but hold launch until I give the word."

Amanda felt a shiver of excitement running through her. In her days aboard the _Brock_, the Alexander-class destroyer had nothing but its own weapons to use against potential threats. A _Forge_ had a squadron of exos and/or interceptors with which they could reach out and touch someone with, long before the ship's own weapons could come into play. Certainly, life aboard a carrier was far more exciting.

That Captain Polwalski was calling for the Ready-5 craft to standby for launch meant that she was expecting trouble. The Ready-5 were a pair of machines that were already sitting on their launch cradles in the launch bays, fully armed and fuelled, just waiting to be manned and launched within five minutes should it be necessary. These were the immediate backup to any craft that were already operating out in space.

"Navigator, plot an intercept course based on the projected position of the _Solar Wanderer_." The Captain ordered in her crisp, clear voice. "Let's see if we can approach her from her flanks."

"Already on it, skipper!" The navigator nodded enthusiastically and began his work in the earnest.

"Helm, stand by to de-spin the centrifuge." Polwalski added, with a growing note of tension to her tone. "Prepare to thrust once that's complete."

"Aye, skipper."

"Comms, you may sound Yellow Alert."

"Yes, ma'am." Amanda felt another thrill of excitement pass through her body as she toggled on the ship's public address system.

She cleared her throat and adjusted her lip mike before stabbing a button on her console. Instantly, a klaxon began to blare through the overhead speakers.

"Yellow Alert! Yellow Alert! All hands, all hands, Yellow Alert! Prepare the Ready-5! All weapons to standby!"


	16. 016 Differences In Opinion

**DIFFERENCES IN OPINION**

_**The shepherd drives the wolf from the sheep's for which the sheep thanks the shepherd as his liberator, while the wolf denounces him for the same act as the destroyer of liberty. Plainly, the sheep and the wolf are not agreed upon a definition of liberty. **_

-Abraham Lincoln-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**CSS ZENSEN, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT **

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

"Readiness Four! Readiness Four!" The pre-recorded voice, coupled with the incessant gonging, filled the passageways and compartments of the CSS_ Zensen_ as she continued to accelerate in the wake of her quarry.

Despite the urgent alarm blaring out from the shipboard speakers, _Zensen's_ passageways were devoid of the men and women who would have struggling into combat spacesuits while en route to their stations as would normally be the case when Readiness Four or Five was sounded. Instead, they were all empty and silent now, apart from the unrelenting alarm.

_Zensen's_ crew had completed manning their stations minutes ago, but her faulty internal communications system refused to cut the alarm when it should have. On the bridge, Ensign Chuikov was still struggling to shut it off.

But for the crew who had been slowly driven mad by the unceasing racket, relief would finally be at hand once the ship began pumping out its internal atmosphere as a precaution against explosive decompression that might result from battle damage.

Even though they were not in weapons range of the _Solar Wanderer_, no one wanted to wait till the terrorist vessel deployed some secret weapon to regret not having prepared the ship for battle. The fact that most of her crew thought that the _Zensen _was an aging rustbucket fit only for scrap made all those pre-battle preparations all the more important. Every little bit would help.

Lieutenant Priscilla Winters, the commander of the _Zensen's_ four-craft flight, entered the main flight bay and was greeted by a scene of chaos that made her stop in her tracks. The support crews were milling all over the place, working feverishly to simultaneously prepare a pair of exo-armors for launch.

"Damn, what a mess." Ensign Alan Sheppard, her regular wingman gasped as he caught up and almost collided with her. A group of techs were scurrying around his machine, trying to secure all the maintenance hatches that had been left open. Some looked as if they were moving in blind panic. "How the hell are we supposed to launch in time with all this crap going on?"

"We don't." Priscilla said simply as she stepped into the flight bay, at a less hurried pace now. From the way things were going, she could have walked from the Ready Room and arrived with time to spare.

Off to a corner, she could see several technicians struggling to pull their combat spacesuits on over their regular work overalls as the depressurization warning began to sound. With the ship under acceleration, there was 'gravity' now. And that was both a blessing and a curse. It made it easier to put on a suit, but ironically made it hard to work in one.

"But if we aren't out there prosecuting that ship . . ." Sheppard began but his flight leader cut him off with a curt gesture.

"Nothing will change." Priscilla shook her head vehemently. "Enfield had his chance to send us out, but he didn't. And I'm sure part of that distress call got out before we jammed them so it makes no difference now if we go out there and hound them. If anyone's heard them, they'd be on the way now."

"But, ma'am . . ." The young Ensign seemed shocked by his commander's outburst.

"Forget it, Shep." Prisiclla sighed in frustration. "You just get to your exo and launch as soon as you can. I'll see you out there."

"Yes, ma'am." And the Ensign separated from her, pulling his helmet over his head as he made his way over to his machine.

Under most circumstances, Lieutenant Priscilla Winters' loyalty towards the CEGA would have been considered unquestionable and such an outburst from her would have been impossible. But her allegiance was far from blindly fanatical and her last loyalty appraisal had been conducted by PolCom long before she had met Captain Roger Enfield of the CSS _Zensen_.

_The man is a complete idiot_! Priscilla seethed as she pulled her flight helmet over ahead and sealed it tight. There had been ample opportunity to for them to launch and disable the _Wanderer_ instead of burning the aging escort carrier's supply of re-mass in an effort to catch up with the fleeing freighter.

But Enfield's standing orders had been explicit as they had been perplexing. There was to be _no_ activity from the ship's onboard exo armor contingent unless he approved it. His reasoning was absurd and would have been hilarious if not for the fact that as Captain, his word was law. And no one really laughed when Captain Enfield issued orders.

Citing the need to keep the contingent of exo armors ready at all times, Enfield had confined them to their hangars, relying on the _Zensen's_ own passive sensors to do most of the surveillance and early warning work.

It was the stupidest excuse she had ever heard for keeping exos grounded. It certainly protected the machines from wear and tear, but it didn't do anything about the skills of the pilots that eroded because of the lack of flying opportunities. There was only so much a simulator could do.

She fumed inwardly as she stamped over to her personal exo armor, a recently-built CEA-12. Originally designed as the _Syreen_ Upgrade Package, the final production model dubbed the _Fury_, was an almost completely new machine despite a fifty-five-percent parts commonality with its predecessor.

While the many versions of the CEA-01 _Syreen_ had a reputation for being fragile, vulnerable and sluggish compared to its primary opponents, the _Fury_ had addressed all of the problems that plagued it progenitor.

Being slightly larger than the _Syreen_, the _Fury_ was more heavily armored, doing away with the once hazardous fuel storage pods on the machine's exterior. The new machine also incorporated superior sensors and communications gear as well as an inbuilt decoy system to increase its versatility and survivability. The old LACW-125 Active Close Defense Laser System (ACDLS) had been replaced by a more accurate and hard-hitting LACW-32oc 'Hecatonchires' ACDLS.

And unlike the _Syreen_, the _Fury_ came with three configurations to expand its utility in a host of situations. The _Megaera_ was the default configuration, normally equipped with an LACW-14 railgun and six seeking missiles which were a step up from the weapons on the _Syreen_ that needed continuous guidance until impact.

In the _Alecto_ configuration, the exo was transformed into a long-range electronic warfare boat equipped with Sparrow recon drones, a satellite uplink and powerful ECCM systems. The final configuration was the _Tisiphone_, a dedicated ship-killer armed with six SR-15 Shrike anti-ship torpedoes and a pair of potent plasma cutters in exchange for some acceleration. Changing between the _Meg_, _Alec_ and _Tis_ was a matter thirty minutes.

It was thirty minutes Priscilla didn't have.

Approaching the acceleration cradle where her personal machine sat, she realized that the techs were hastily replacing several panels that had been removed around the lower right 'Hecatonchires' turret. And she noted that despite the presence of the six missiles on the _Fury's_ shoulder 'wings', identifying it as a _Meg_ configuration, the railgun hardpoint was noticeably empty.

Captain Enfield's policy of keeping the exos grounded certainly did not help keep the pilots sharp and it would only have been beneficial from a maintenance standpoint if the techs had sufficient parts and experience to keep the machines operational.

As it was, there were barely enough parts to keep the _Syreens_ at full readiness and the inexperienced deck crews didn't get enough opportunity to work under launch conditions to achieve any sort of proficiency. And then there was the issue about the more advanced _Fury_ requiring more time and expertise devoted to maintenance compared to its cruder predecessor.

All these factors came together to create a most appalling set of conditions under which Priscilla had to operate. While she had command of the other three pilots that made up the _Zensen's_ flight of exos, Enfield retained command over the technicians who serviced her machines and the deck crew who ran the flight bays.

Priscilla had learnt a long time ago that a poor support crew could and often _would_ easily render even the best of exo squadrons ineffective. And it seemed clear that such was the case now.

She looked to the senior tech in charge of servicing her machine. _Kemper_, she remembered his name, surprised at herself. She was the epitome of the glory-seeking exo pilot. Arrogant, confident and haughty, with little time for the serfs who were given the onerous task for preparing and repairing her machine.

Still she was glad to see that Kemper at least had the presence of mind to have donned on his spacesuit before the Readiness Four alert had been sounded. He looked almost apologetic when he caught the inquiring look in her eye. Her gaze shifted to the empty weapon hardpoint and the technician's eyes followed suit.

"Where is my railgun, Chief?" Lieutenant Winters asked harshly as she pulled up her helmet visor to speak to him directly.

"I'm afraid it's unserviceable at the moment, ma'am." Kemper winced even as he delivered that report.

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" Winters pent-up frustration detonated in the direction of the hapless tech. "I've never even _used_ it before! How the hell could it be unserviceable?"

"I'm terribly sorry, ma'am," the technician apologized profusely. "One of the power leads had not been properly secured and a power surge during installation caused the capacitor to malfunction."

"In plain English, please!" Priscilla demanded impatiently as she turned on Kemper with a glint of anger in her eye.

"We made a mistake and fried your railgun's capacitor, ma'am." Kemper gulped audibly. "It's useless now, ma'am. I'm so sorry."

"You're damn right you made a mistake." Priscilla raged, glaring at the man responsible for keeping her machine maintained. "And you're going to be even sorrier if you don't replace that railgun now."

"We don't have any spares, ma'am."

"What do you mean, you don't have _any_ spares?" Priscilla felt her fury slipping dangerously out of control. She made a conscious effort not to reach for the sidearm strapped to her belt.

"The . . . The Captain . . ."

"What about him?"

"Captain Enfield didn't approve the forms for the requisitioning of spare parts before we left port, ma'am." The technician caved in and flinched away in anticipation of the pilot's impending wrath.

Priscilla felt an explosion of heat flaring up inside her but miraculously avoided the temptation to strike the innocent technician. Balling up her fists, she stormed past Kemper without uttering another word, pausing only to reach for the handholds before pulling herself up towards her open cockpit. She didn't even want to ask about the rest of her exo armor's systems. She wasn't sure if she could take it.

Captain Enfield may have thought himself to be a genius for practically keeping his exos in cold storage so that they wouldn't succumb to the malfunctions brought about by wear and tear. Apparently, his idea of a ready machine was one that was used as little as possible to reduce the need for maintenance. It would seem that he didn't think that it would be any different with the techs or pilots.

Of course, Lieutenant Priscilla Winters did not concur with what she believed was his naive and flawed concept of things. Sadly, the policy of reduced usage to preserve efficiency seemed to have extended to Enfield's brain as well.

But there's was no point trying to debate the point now as she began to slip herself into the cockpit pod of her _Fury_. She made a mental note to have another heated but potentially fruitless discussion with the Captain about the use of the _Zensen's_ exo-armor complement once the present crisis was resolved.

All she had to do was _survive_ this little incident and make it back to the carrier in one piece.

_Easier said than done_, she thought grimly to herself as she slid her helmet visor down once more.


	17. 017 Going Ahead

**LOOKING AHEAD**

_**Just drive down that road, until you get blown up.**_

-General George S. Patton Jr.-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**WATCHDOG ONE, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT**

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

"Watchdog, Watchdog, this is Kennel. Come in Watchdog."

Warrant Officer Adelene Chan started in her linear frame as the loud, lively voice chirped in her ear.

During standard operations, a carrier's exos and interceptors were her long-range eyes and ears whenever they were deployed – often patrolling in a large racetrack pattern somewhere ahead or to the flanks of the carrier. Since communications broadcasts, active sensor sweeps and other such emissions would give away one's position most radio traffic tended to be one-way, if at all.

The patrolling pilots would update their carrier regularly while the mothership normally remained silent in order to keep its own emissions to a minimum and reduce its profile. The carrier's flight controllers and communications operators normally said nothing unless their input was absolutely necessary such as in the case of exchanging hails from other vessels, giving new directions regarding a developing situation or relaying landing instructions to returning patrol craft.

Adelene knew she wasn't due for landing yet and it wasn't likely that the controllers aboard the _Forge_ were calling her up for a friendly chat. So that could only mean one thing . . .

"Watchdog, Watchdog, this is Kennel. Come in Watchdog." The voice repeated, sounding a little more urgent than before. Adelene recognized the voice as that of Amanda Loh, one of the _Forge's_ more cheerful and pleasant communications operators. But right now, there wasn't really anything particularly cheerful about the young Corporal's tone.

"This is Watchdog One," Adelene replied tentatively. She was beginning to have a bad feeling about this particular conversation. "Go ahead, Kennel."

"Watchdog, we have trade for you." The voice on the other end was tense and Adelene knew that it was never a good sign. "Come left forty-eight and increase plus twenty."

Forty-eight degrees to the left? Adelene frowned that would take her out of her patrol circuit. And adding twenty kilometers per second to her current velocity meant she would be going somewhere in a hurry.

Still, she was sure she had heard correct and she shifted the controls for her _Pathfinder_ CT, firing the maneuvering thrusters that sent the war machine swinging onto its new course. She was pleased to see that her wingman, Officer Winnie Kok, had executed her own turn in perfect synchronization.

Noting that she had completed the turn, she killed the turning momentum with a burst of counterthrust from opposing maneuvering jets before nudging the throttle forward. She could imagine the thruster array strapped to the back of her Pathfinder flaring to life as they kicked the exo-armor forward.

Acceleration pressed her back into her linear frame as the _Pathfinder_ roared forward, four bluish-white cones of plasma gushing from her main thruster array to bring her up to something far more than a leisurely patrol speed.

"Maneuver completed, Kennel."

"Copy that. We've received a distress call some moments ago from a Belt-registered vessel, the _Solar Wanderer_." The communications operator said by way of explanation. "It was cut off before we could respond and ascertain the cause of distress. We're now vectoring you in to the ship's last known location."

"Roger that." Adelene groaned inwardly. _Great . . . just another spacer in trouble . . ._

"Our best guess places the _Wanderer_ at 40 by 1 down 2 relative to your position." Corporal Loh went on, seemingly oblivious to Adelene's distaste for the task she was being saddled with.

Adelene translated those simple code numbers into useful information. The ship in question was some four thousand kilometers ahead, a mere hundred kilometers to the right and two hundred kilometers 'below' her. At their current speed, it would take just over two minutes to get there. Even less to get into sensor and weapons range.

And apparently Corporal Loh wasn't finished yet. "Be advised also that we have lost contact with her so you'll have to conduct active sensor sweeps when you get close enough."

_And let the whole world know where we are_, Adelene thought dourly. "Splendid," she replied mordantly. "Anymore cheerful snippets of news that I should be aware of, Kennel?"

"That's affirmative." The comms operator continued, either truly oblivious to the exo flight leader's sarcasm or simply ignoring it. "We have reason to believe that the _Wanderer_ has stopped broadcasting due to jamming. But we won't know till we get a closer look."

_Till_ I_ get a closer look, you mean_, Adelene corrected the comms operator mentally. "Kennel, confirm please. You said jamming?"

"That's affirmative. We're picking up possible traces of active ECM activity in the area." Amanda announced. "Could be hostiles."

_That_ got Adelene's attention. What had seemed like a simple errand to check on a bunch of civilians who had managed to get themselves into trouble was now shaping up into something potentially more exciting and dangerous.

She shifted restlessly in her linear frame, excited at the prospect of action after weeks of boring patrols in the Belt. "Kennel, confirm ROEs, please."

"Uh . . . wait one, Watchdog." Adelene was sure she heard Amanda clamping a hand over her lip mike so that she couldn't hear the conversation that was presumably taking place between the communications operator and the ranking officer on the bridge.

A few heartbeats later, Amanda's chimed over Adelene's headset once again. "Watchdog, Rules of Engagement remained unchanged. Do not fire unless fired upon. We have no idea what's out there."

_Right . . ._ Adelene shook her head in mild frustration. _That's why _I've_ got to go out there and get shot at_, she thought darkly to herself. "Roger Kennel, return fire only." Adelene grated, before switching frequencies so that she could talk to Winnie. "You heard?"

"Yeah . . ." Her wingman drawled nonchalantly. "I've got a bad feeling about this, Ade."

"Me too." Adelene found herself nodding in agreement. "Something about this whole setup stinks. Let's spread out a little but hold back on the active sensors till Kennel gives the word."

"Roger." Winnie replied tersely, her laid-back tone giving way to crisp professionalism now. "Going to combat spread."

Adelene spared a quick glance over her shoulder and noted that Winnie's _Pathfinder_ Alpha was slipping to the right, opening up the distance that between them, their patrol formation now taking on a more aggressive stance.

Adelene stared at her instruments and felt her heart begin to pound in the relative silence of the armored cocoon that housed her and her linear frame.

She reached out and flipped off the protective cover for the master arm switch before toggling it, arming her exo-armor's missiles and particle cannon. Even though she had express orders to hold her fire unless someone shot at her, she wasn't going to wait until that happened before she started worrying about getting her weapons ready. A series of green lights winked on, telling her that her machine was ready to dispense death and destruction. All that was missing now was a target.

Checking her navigational display, she was noted that she was less than a minute away from the _Solar Wanderer's_ projected position. She should have been well within sensor range by now. She was just about to call up the carrier when Amanda's voice sounded in her headset once again. "Watchdog, Watchdog, come in, Watchdog."

"Watchdog copies." Adelene replied immediately, noticing for the first time that her throat was dry. "Go ahead, Kennel."

"You may begin active sensor sweep now." Amanda's was static-laced now. "Watchdog, do you copy?"

"Roger that." Adelene replied, trying to keep the note of concern out of her voice. "Beginning sensor sweep now . . ."

"I'm getting some interference, Ade." Winnie pointed out. "Doesn't look good . . ."

"Same here. Must be the jamming we were warned about." Adelene tried to sound calm. Her _Pathfinder_ Command's communication suite was one of the very best in the JAF inventory. And for her to be experiencing even residual effects from jamming meant that the source was something with far more powerful than that which could be mounted on a mere exo-armor or fighter. Something _big_ was out there . . . something that may . . .

There was a shrill alert in her headset as her active sensors combed the deathly cold void ahead, the invisible feelers of the MR-65 EWAC (Early Warning and Aerospace Control) System mounted on her _Pathfinder's_ right shoulder discovering something more than just vacuum.

Immediately, two large yellow blips and a pair of smaller blips between them flashed into existence on her sensor display. She stared at those blips, expecting more information to accompany the unidentified yellow blips as they resolved themselves.

Instead, they remained stubbornly yellow and apart from range and heading information next to each contact, all other data remained unrevealed. The blips themselves seemed somewhat tentative, flickering slightly as the sensor display was covered in a thin layer of electronic 'snow'.

At once, Adelene knew that one of the bigger blips must have been the source of the jamming. Considering how close she already was and the fact that her state-of-the-art sensor systems were hardly impaired, she concluded that she was facing a relatively low-end system - which meant that she could easily burn through the electronic haze and get a clearer picture of what was ahead of her.

"I'm gonna burn through this crap and get a clearer picture." She told her wingman even as she worked the controls for her exo's advanced ECCM systems.

"Roger." Winnie acknowledged simply.

It took a few seconds for her Electronic Counter-Countermeasures to take effect but when they did, her opponent's jamming efforts simply collapsed and her sensor display was suddenly cleared.

A few moments passed before the unidentified blips - their silhouettes now unshielded and their Identification Friend or Foe transponders unconstrained by the jamming - took on a more concrete form. Colors changed and fresh data appeared next to each one.

Adelene's eyes went wide when she realized what she was hurtling towards. She thumbed the transmit switch on her control stick and opened a channel with her mothership.

There was a lump growing in her throat as she began her report. "Kennel, Kennel . . . This is Watchdog."

"Go ahead, Watchdog."

"Uh, we have a problem, Kennel . . ."


	18. 018 Complications

**COMPLICATIONS  
**

**_Battles are won through the ability of men to express concrete ideas in clear and unmistakable language._**

-Brigadier General S.L.A. Marshall-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**ODIN ONE, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT**

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

The sudden warble in her helmet headset made Lieutenant Winters jump in her linear frame. The tight restraints that cut into her shoulders told her that she had spent far too little time of late in her machine. The cockpit still smelled new.

At least the warning tone had sounded familiar, but that was of little consolation to her. It had come from her emissions warning receiver, informing her that she had just been caught in a sensor sweep.

Her eyes darted to the sensor display which was still on passive mode and she saw two red blips appearing. An alarm tone accompanied their sudden materialization. Considering that she had her attention focused on the arrow symbol that was the _Solar Wanderer_ moments before, the appearance of two more contacts so close to them was most surprising.

A moment passed and her sensors managed to glean enough data from the emissions from the two incoming contacts to sufficiently identify them as more than a pair of blips simply broadcasting a foreign IFF signal.

It only took her an instant to decipher the coded letters appearing beside each blip. Two _Pathfinder_ exo-armors, probably both Alpha configurations. Maybe a Command Type. Priscilla's heart skipped a beat as the realization hit home. _Jovians_ . . .

Very quickly, she chided herself for allowing herself to be surprised. After all, the _Wanderer_ did manage to get out a distress call though most of it was jammed. Anyone with decent communications gear would have been able to home in on her approximate location with some degree of accuracy.

Out here in the Belt, inhabited mostly by xenophobic Nomads who would rather mind their own business, the most likely people to respond to the _Wanderer's_ SOS were the Solar Cross, or the Jovians. The arrival of a neutral Solar Cross would have been most troublesome, from a political standpoint. But to the soldier that was in Priscilla, the arrival of the meddlesome Jovians was something far more dangerous. Yet it was a complication she was trained to deal with.

She thumbed the frequency selector wheel and keyed the transmit button on her throttle lever, calling up the _Zensen_. "Uh, Valhalla, this is Odin One, do you copy?"

The youthful face of Ivan Chuikov, the on-duty communications operator, appeared on a small side screen on Priscilla's display. She could see that he was looking somewhat preoccupied. "Odin One, this is Valhalla, receiving you loud and clear."

"Do you see what I'm seeing Valhalla?"

"Uh, wait one, Odin." Chuikov turned to look off-screen for a moment, cupping a hand over his lip mike and he spoke to some outside the video pick up. A heartbeat later, he was looking back at Priscilla. "Roger that, Odin. We're reading a pair of _Pathfinders_, broadcasting what appear to be Jovian IFF protocols."

"And what am I supposed to do about them?" Priscilla asked, consulting her sensor display again. "You do realize that they're going to reach the _Wanderer_ before we do, don't you?"

Chuikov hesitate. "Uh, hold on, Odin . . . Uh, the Captain wants a word with you."

"Terrific." Winters muttered under her breath just before Chuikov's face was replaced by that of Captain Enfield.

"Winters." Enfield began, ignoring standard radio procedure and addressing his exo commander by name, Priscilla knew better than to correct him on a matter of protocol.

"Captain," was all she said in reply as she kept one eye on the sensor display.

"It appears that our terrorists may have friends among the Jovians." Enfield stated solemnly. "It is my opinion that this may well be an elaborate ploy to lead us into a trap."

Priscilla said nothing. She wasn't sure if she could believe that STRIKE terrorists would ally themselves with the Jovians. It was more likely that they were using stolen JAF equipment. But of course, that would be discounting the fact that the incoming machines _were_ genuine JAF craft responding to the Wanderer's SOS, which was a far more plausible explanation for things. And of course, she couldn't discount the possibility that it was a trap, though the fact that Enfield had managed to say something so sensible astounded her.

"Winters, respond!"

"Yes, Captain. I heard you." Priscilla disinterested reply bordered on insubordination.

"It is also my belief that they are operating from a hidden asteroid base in the vicinity and more exos may be on the way."

If Priscilla had been awed by her captain's uncharacteristic display of common sense in his previous deductions, she was thunderstruck by the absurdity of what he was suggesting now. And she didn't bother disguising her astonishment. "Hidden . . . asteroid . . . base?"

"But of course, Lieutenant." Enfield replied condescendingly. "We are in the Belt after all, there are asteroids everywhere! Where else do you think those craft can be coming from?"

Priscilla didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the manner in which her Captain was challenging her to debunk his stupidity. After a momentary pause, she managed to respond with just enough tact to avoid calling him an idiot in the face.

"Captain . . . Has it occurred to you that those craft could be flying off a Jovian patrol carrier that we have not detected yet?"

"Nonsense!" Enfield scoffed. "Not even Jovian warship captains are stupid enough to openly assist STRIKE terrorists! Those are STRIKE pilots in machines either stolen from or provided by the JAF!"

"Captain, I don't think . . ."

"That's right, Lieutenant! You're _don't_ think." Enfield snapped coldly. "That's _my_ job."

""Yes, sir . . ." Priscilla's cheeks burned at her Captain's stinging response. Even though she knew she was right and she was sure everyone who was listening in on their conversation felt the same way, it didn't make Enfield's remarks any more bearable.

"I'll be launching the other two _Syreens_ as soon as possible to counter any follow-on forces that these terrorist scum may be bringing up in addition to those two that we have on screen now."

"Whatever you say, sir," Priscilla grated, offering her Captain the side profile of her helmeted head so that he couldn't see her rolling her eyes. "And what do you like me to do now?"

"I want you to stop those exos from reaching the _Wanderer_."

Priscilla looked back at her Captain, fixing him with the frostiest look she could muster. She could see a similar scowl on Lieutenant Chang's face as she slipped into the video pick-up's range for a moment. "Sir, we cannot do that. You can see for yourself, sir. The Jovians are going to get there first."

"Lieutenant!" Enfield exclaimed suddenly

"Sir?" Priscilla was slightly startled. Now _what?_

"They are _not_ Jovians." Enfield said slowly, deliberately. "They are terrorists."

"Sir, even if we go to overthrust now, the Jov , I mean, _they_ will still get to _Wanderer_ before we do." Priscilla protested, trying to keep a lid on her own temper.

"Then chase them away when you get there, Lieutenant!" Enfield barked.

Priscilla paused for a moment to consider what her commander was telling her to do. She knew her that Enfield was a fool, but she knew she couldn't let that stop her from clarifying the instructions given to her.

"Captain, do I have weapons free?"

Captain Enfield's jaw fell open and he began to sputter for a moment before he finally spoke. "Cert . . . Certainly _not_!"

"Sir, if they really are terrorists, then we can open fire on them without fear of an international incident!" Priscilla almost felt like crying at the stupidity of the whole situation. "You _are_ certain they're terrorists, aren't you?"

"Don't you dare question my judgment, _Lieutenant_!" Enfield roared, bringing his fist down on the armrest of his chair. "You _will_ chase those craft away. And you _will_ keep your weapons 'safed'. That's an order."

"Then what the _hell_ am I supposed to do to chase them away?" Priscilla retorted hotly. "Spit on them?"

"Use your discretion and creativity, Winters! Valhalla out!"

The screen went blank as her Captain cut the channel before she could reply and Lieutenant Priscilla Winters resisted the temptation to curse and swear out loud as she continued to hurtle towards the _Solar Wanderer_ without any idea of what she was going to do when she got there.


	19. 019 Pressing Matters

**PRESSING MATTERS**

**_If it's a good idea, go ahead and do it. It's much easier to apologize than it is to get permission._**

-Rear Adm. Grace Murray Hopper-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**WATCHDOG TWO, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT**

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

"Say again, Kennel." Warrant Officer Winnie Kok could tell that her wing leader was finding it hard to keep the exasperation out of her voice this time. It wasn't all that surprising though, since Winnie was having trouble comprehending what she had just heard from the _Forge_ as well. "Say again!"

"Watchdog One, permission to conduct a lightning strike against the _Tengu_ has been denied." Amanda's reply carried a note of poorly-hidden frustration. "You are to take up escort position around the _Solar Wanderer_. Those are the Captain's exact instructions, restated for you, ma'am."

"Then I feel I must restate _my_ situation." Adelene answered hotly. Though Winnie knew she would never have taken up that sort of tone when communicating with her home vessel, she had to admit that she had to agree with what Adelene was saying, regardless of whether she would have approved of the tone or not.

"I have two enemy exo-armors and an escort carrier closing in on my position. Both my wingman and I are low on re-mass. And if they Earthers are really after the _Wanderer_, we've got to stop them before they get too close."

"Uh . . . wait one, Watchdog . . ." Amanda hesitated as she seemed to consult someone off-screen.

Winnie wasn't sure whether to feel amused at or to admire Adelene's conduct. In the time that she had been assigned to the older woman as her wingman, Winnie Kok had found Adelene to be the energetic and spunky sort of pilot who was a perfect embodiment of the public's imagination of the boisterous, flamboyant personality that was the stereotypical exo pilot.

_This is truly odd match_, Winnie thought to herself as she continued to stare at the blips on her sensor display. Though they were technically of equivalent rank, Adelene had seniority since she had enlisted earlier and was well on the way to reaching Lieutenant.

Winnie on the other hand was a newly-minted Warrant Officer and first-tour exo pilot who had gotten 'lucky' enough to draw an assignment to an active ship of the fleet instead of being posted to colony cylinder or remote outpost as was generally the case for new officers.

Both women were competent pilots, with nothing flashy about the manner in which they flew. Both were dedicated in their duties and loyal in their devotion to one another. Both flew their maneuvers in a crisp and precise fashion that consistently impressed Captain Ron Dicher, the _Forge's _squadron commander.

But that was as far as the similarities went.

Where Adelene was diminutive in frame, Winnie towered over her wing leader, standing taller than several of her male comrades as well. Tall as she was, Winnie wasn't really a giant and she attributed her willowy frame to her childhood which was spent in the low-gravity environs of Ganymede. Where Adelene was outspoken and sometimes confrontational, Winnie was withdrawn and introspective. While Adelene was excitable and energetic, Winnie was reserved and relaxed.

So they were professionally similar but poles apart where personality was concerned. Yet they still got along 'famously' as Captain Dicher had put it. They were _the_ dynamic duo of the _Forge's_ onboard squadron. To many aboard, the two of them embodied the ethos of the squadron with their personalities. Flamboyant hotshots, coupled with precise craftsmen, all professional. Just the way Dicher liked it.

Amanda looked back at them for a moment before her befuddled face was blacked out and replaced by Lynette Polwalski's scowling visage. Even though the Captain was directing her attention to Adelene, Winnie found it very hard to look into the Skipper's harsh, staring eyes. When Polwalski finally spoke, her words had all the smoothness of broken glass and Winnie found herself wincing behind her helmet visor.

"Officer Chan, may I remind you that _no_ state of hostilities exist between the Confederation and the CEGA." Polwalski's formal tone was sufficiently frigid to send chills down Winnie's spine. "As such, those incoming exos are _not_ your enemy."

"Well, that's a relief." Adelene replied, her voice dripping with cynicism. Even Winnie was surprised by that. Her wing leader seemed hell-bent on committing career suicide today. "They sure had me fooled!"

"Can that crap, Chan." The Captain barked harshly, though Winnie was astonished that Polwalski didn't quite lose her temper. "You will take up position around the _Wanderer_. That should make them think twice about attacking a defenseless freighter."

"_Should_, being the keyword here." Officer Chan retorted heatedly. "Captain, if they decide to attack, even after thinking twice, the _Wanderer_ is still going to be just as dead."

Winnie had to agree with her wing leader's reading of the situation. Flying right next to a ship in an escort formation was good for deterring anyone from getting to close. But once an unidentified craft or hostiles were detected closing with the ship in question, then the escorts would serve best by intercepting the incoming craft short of their intended target, preferably while they are out of range of the ship being defended.

With two _Syreens_ now screaming in towards the _Wanderer_ with live missiles loaded, having the two Jovians flying next to the freighter was a useless gesture if the incoming exos truly intended to attack. State of hostilities or not, the incoming _Syreens_ were squawking IFF that identified them as CEGA craft and that read hostile in Adelene's book. And Winnie didn't differ too greatly in her own sentiments towards what she saw as the imperialistic Central Earth Government and Administration.

If the CEGA's track record was anything to go by, flying next to the _Wanderer_ would be next to pointless if the _Syreens_ truly intended to attack her since they could always shoot past the _Pathfinders_ and at the freighter. And the CEGA had seldom yielded to anyone. Even the mighty Jovian Confederation was not exempt.

"Captain, if we want to have any hope of stopping those exos, we've got to go an intercept them as far away from the freighter as possible!" Adelene argued passionately. "If we stick next to the _Wanderer_, she won't stand a chance when the missiles start flying!"

Winnie could see the _Forge's_ Captain apparently considering what her wing leader was saying for a moment, her frown growing more elaborate as the seconds ticked by. In the short time that Winnie had known the Captain, she knew that Polwalski was not the kind of person who would change her mind once it was made up.

Winnie could feel the tension crackling between the two over the airwaves as the silence dragged on. She kept an eye on her sensor display, glad for the available distraction but noting with growing concern that the _Syreens_ weren't slowing their approach at all.

And there was something strange about one of the _Syreens_. Her sensors were processing it as an example of the ubiquitous CEGA exo-armor. But there was something not quite right about its emissions profile. Her computer wasn't entirely certain either. Maybe it was the jamming, Winnie tried to reason. But it would be strange if it only affected one of the _Syreens_ and not the other, wouldn't it? Maybe it was a _Commander _variant of the _Syreen_. Those were known to carry an ECM pod slung under its hull.

"You said it yourself, Chan. You're low on fuel." Polwalski pointed out just as Winnie returned her attention to the ongoing conversation. "If you two run out of fuel and this thing goes hot, you'll be in a world of pain."

"Captain, if this thing goes hot, we _will_ run out of fuel." Adelene countered vehemently. "And we'd still be in a world of pain whether we're out there intercepting or sitting right next to the _Wanderer_. If we want to stop those Earthers, there's no better time than now."

Captain Polwalski was silent.

"Besides," Adelene used the silence to her dubious advantage by adding somewhat less confidently, "The Ready-5 exos are on their way, right?"

"Launched and on the way." Polwalski confirmed before looking off-screen for a moment. "ETA your position in seven minutes."

"Seven minutes." Winnie was almost sure she heard Adelene gulp. "Winnie and I can hold the fort till then."

_So we hope_ . . . Winnie thought to herself, sensing that the Captain was about to relent.

"Ok, Chan. You may proceed to intercept." Polwalski grated. "But don't you dare to start an interplanetary war while you're there."

"No intention of starting one on an empty fuel tank, Captain." Adelene replied, trying to sound as cheerful and confident as she could. "Watchdog One out."


	20. 020 Saber Rattling

**SABER RATTLING**

_**Peace is our aim and strength the only way of getting it.**_

-Winston Churchill**-**

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**ODIN ONE, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT **

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

"The Jovians are heading towards us, ma'am." Ensign Alan Sheppard's voice crackled in Lieutenant Winters' earphones. She could barely help rolling her eyes at her wingman's needless report.

"You don't say . . ." she replied scathingly. _Like what else would I be watching on my sensor scope for the past minute or so_? Still, she frowned as she stared at the pair of blips that were separating from the _Solar Wanderer_ and heading toward her and her wingman.

She dreaded having to call up the carrier. When the Jovians had arrived and taken up positions around the _Wanderer_, she had requested instructions from her mothership. Enfield had been adamant that Priscilla and her wingman still close in to chase away the new arrivals. And he had been even more adamant that under no circumstances were the CEGA exo armors to fire first.

For some unfathomable reason, Enfield was still insisting that those exos were terrorists but at the same time he was treating them as if they were exos of another sovereign nation by refusing to grant his pilots permission to fire first. Winters seethed_. Is he truly that incompetent, or just insane_?

Sighing loudly to herself, she switched to the _Zensen's_ tactical frequency and keyed the transmit button. "Valhalla, this is Odin One. Do you copy?"

"Affirmative, Odin One. Valhalla copies." Ensign Chuikov replied promptly. "Go ahead"

"You are seeing what I'm seeing, right?"

"Uh, wait one . . ."

"Don't mean to rush you, but those Jovians are coming at us really quick." Winters pointed out. "I'm going to need some orders."

"Roger that, Odin One. The Captain restates that ROEs are still in effect." Chuikov almost sounded sorry to be the bearer of bad news. "Your instructions remain the same. Close with the _Wanderer_ and to force her to stop."

"Oh, terrific . . ." Winters muttered out loud. "And did the Captain happen to mention anything about what I'm supposed to do about those two incoming exos?"

"Uh, wait one . . ."

"This is getting old really fast . . ." Winters rolled her eyes and signed in frustration. To her surprise, Chuikov's face was replaced by Enfield's. The look on his face made it clear that he believed he had better things to do than to talk to her. Whether he really did or not, she didn't really care. "Why, Captain . . . how timely."

"Don't patronize me, Winters."

"I'll skip the niceties then, _sir_." Winters retorted rapidly and venomously. "I've got two Jovian exos headed for me now. What do you want me to do about them?"

"Firstly, stop calling them Jovians." Enfield said in that sickeningly oily tone of his. "Secondly, you are to stop the _Wanderer_. That is your only concern. If she refuses, you have clearance for weapons release to force her to stop."

"But what about the exos?" Priscilla asked in exasperation.

"What about them, Winters?"

"You think they are going to just let me and Sheppard zoom past them to shoot up that freighter?"

"The freighter is our objective. The exos are of no concern to us." Enfield replied, sounding almost bored at having to converse with Priscilla. "The rules of engagement stand. You will not fire at them unless fired upon or specifically ordered to do so. You have your orders, Lieutenant. I strongly suggest you carry them out. Enfield out."

Priscilla felt an overwhelming urge to scream in the confines of her cockpit. Her hands bunched up into fists and she would have punched the nearest console if she had no fear of it coming apart under the force of the blow.

For a dangerous moment, she imagined herself leading a mutiny against Enfield, propping him up against the nearest bulkhead and having him shot on the spot. Now that would certainly make her feel very good, she thought.

"What are we going to do, ma'am?" Sheppard's shaky voice came through her earphones.

"No way I'm going to let those exos get a free shot at our tails." Priscilla replied, struggling to keep her frustration in check. "We'll continue towards the _Wanderer_. But as soon as those exos make a hostile move towards us, we break and engage."

"You mean we _fire _at them?" Sheppard sounded incredulous.

"No, Shep. We just play around with them while waiting for them to take the first shot." Priscilla replied acrimoniously. "Let's humor the Captain a bit. Maybe it might piss him off sufficiently for him to let us shoot first."

"Now wouldn't that be someth . . ."

There was a foreign crackling in her ears and a new voice broke in over the airwaves. It wasn't one that Priscilla recognized at all. Glancing at the video display, she realized it was a woman in a white combat flight suit, similar to the olive drab one that she herself wore. Most of the newcomer's face was similarly hidden behind a flight helmet. _Who_ . . .?

"Attention incoming CEGA exo-armors, this is Watchdog One, approaching you from directly ahead. Do you copy?" The foreign voice said.

Priscilla hesitated for a moment and waited. Even though the message was coming in on a general channel, there was no response from the carrier. Apparently, Enfield wasn't interested in talking to 'terrorists' today.

Priscilla sighed heavily. She couldn't just ignore them now, could she? _And besides, since when do STRIKE terrorists find themselves in a mood to chat with CEGA exo pilots_?

"CEGA exo armors, this is Watchdog One, approac . . ."

"We copy, Watchdog One." Priscilla finally answered. If Enfield wasn't going to try and defuse this situation, she would do it herself. After all, it was her butt on the line. "This is Lieutenant Winters, CEGA Navy, callsign Odin One. Identify yourself, Watchdog One."

There was a very short pause before the woman replied. "This is Warrant Officer Chan, Jovian Armed Forces." Priscilla felt her heart jump. A sense of vindication washed over her. They _were_ Jovians after all. "You are on an intercept course with our ship, the JSS _Forge_. Please change course immediately to avoid her."

Priscilla frowned at that and stared at her sensors. There was no Jovian spaceship to be seen anywhere. Maybe the Jovian exo pilot was bluffing. _But then, where else could they have launched from_?

She was inclined to believe that the JAF pilot was telling the truth but since her sensors were still on passive mode and the Jovian warship in question was definitely doing the same, it was still invisible to her. She had little doubt that if she toggled her active sensors now, the Jovian carrier would probably appear at the edge of her sensors' range if not closer. Still, she had a mission to perform.

"Negative, Watchdog One. We are currently in pursuit of the _Solar Wanderer_." Priscilla stated as formally as she could, throwing as much authority as possible behind her voice. "However, be assured we have no intention of crossing paths with your ship."

There was another pause before the Jovian pilot spoke. "I'm afraid I cannot allow you to do that, Odin One."

"_What_?" Priscilla exclaimed. She chastised herself mentally for that outburst. _Should I even have been surprised that the Jovians were poking their noses into this_? "I beg your pardon, Watchdog One."

"Negative. We cannot allow you to proceed." Officer Chan repeated firmly. "We are currently responding to the _Wanderer's_ distress call. She is now under our care. Please abort your approach, Odin One."

"This is international space!" Priscilla retorted. "Unless you're declaring an Exclusion Zone around the _Wanderer_, you have no right to tell me where I can fly and where I can't."

"Be that as it may, Odin One, the JAF is currently responding to the _Wanderer_'_s _distress call and as such, we will be taking all necessary action to safeguard her. Your present approach may be deemed to be a hostile action. Please abort your approach, Odin One."

"Like hell I'm breaking off!" Winters snapped back viciously in reply. "We were in pursuit before you interfered. I have my orders. Now _you_ break off and let us do our job, Watchdog One."

"Negative on that Odin One." Chan answered heatedly. "I cannot allow you to do that! Break off now, I repeat, break off now."

Winters bit down angrily on her lip. She could see where this was headed. But she wasn't about to turn away and return to the carrier with her tail between her legs. Fixing the image of the Jovian pilot with her harshest gaze, she spoke in a tone that conveyed her own cold determination. "Watchdog One, you are making a mistake by interfering in a CEGA military operation. If you do not break off now, your safety _cannot_ be guaranteed."

Winters saw that the Jovians were already inside weapons range now. A knot tightened in her gut. In a few more moments they'd be close enough to touch each other. _What the hell is Enfield doing_? _Isn't he going to say something_?

"Negative, Odin One. It is _you_ who are making the mistake. The _Solar Wanderer_ is a civilian vessel calling for assistance." Chan stubbornly matched Winters' tone. "If you persist in your present course of action, we will be forced to take defensive action in order to protect the _Wanderer_."

"Ma'am, what are we going to do?" Sheppard cried out.

"Shut up, Shep!" Winters snapped forcefully at her wingman before returning her attention the upstart Jovian flight leader. "Now you listen here . . ." Winters stopped in mid-sentence as she saw two flecks of white, haloed with bluish flame appearing dead center of her view. Her eyes widened and her heart stopped as she realized what was happening.

"Two, _break_!" She didn't wait for a response as she yanked her own controls, throwing her _Fury_ into a violent right turn. An instant later, two Jovian _Pathfinders_, flying almost shoulder to shoulder came screaming through the gap that she had just opened up with her wingman. "Two, abort your run!"

"Already done that, One." The Ensign's voice had changed. It was tight and business-like now. "One of them is coming around for me!"

Winters looked over her shoulder, her wraparound holographic display showing the situation all too clearly. The Jovians had decelerated at the very last moment just as they were about to pass the CEGA exos.

Now they had split up and were swinging around to engage them. If she pressed on now, Priscilla knew she could still get in close enough to disable the _Wanderer_. After all, the Jovians were in a position where they had to play catch up with her

But Priscilla knew that Enfield wouldn't give clearance for her to fire on the _Wanderer_ until she had established that they weren't going to slow down. And it would take a few aggressive fly-bys and warning shots to convince the _Wanderer_ to stop. Those actions would take time. More than enough time for the Jovians to catch up with her.

And she wasn't sure if they had any qualms about shooting her.

"Winters! Come in!" Enfield's voice shrilled through her headset. Now that was just predictable. "Respond, damn it!"

"I'm a little busy right now, sir!" Priscilla snapped as she saw one of the _Pathfinders_ swinging in behind her. She promptly rolled to the left with an abrupt burst of energy from her lateral thrusters, watching the Jovian overshoot before trying to come around again. _Betcha didn't expect that, eh_? Priscilla smiled victoriously as her would-be tormentor tried to get back into a pursuit position. _The_ Fury's _certainly no_ Syreen.

"Winters! What the _hell_ is going on out there?" Enfield went on ranting. "Why the _hell_ have you broken off your run?"

"See, I told you they were Jovians. But no . . . you wouldn't listen." Winters drawled over the radio, ignoring all of her Captain's questions. She shot another glance over her shoulder and saw that her pursuer hadn't given up yet. _Tenacious now, aren't we_?

"Damn you, Winters! _Answer me_!" She could almost imagine Enfield going purple with rage. Except she didn't have to. The video window on her HUD already showed her that. She felt an urge to laugh at his face and she would have if it weren't for the Jovian _Pathfinder_ exo armor that had taken a liking to her rear. "Why are you engaging the Jovians?"

"Ah, see? Now you admit they _are_ Jovians." Priscilla said in a bantering tone that didn't quite reflect the mood she was in. "And unless you haven't noticed, sir, they're engaging _me_!"

"Don't make excuses, Lieutenant! This is all _your_ fault!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever . . ." Priscilla felt her irritation build. Her Jovian pursuer was still behind her. Even though he or she wasn't going for weapons lock yet, Winters wasn't going to just let the Jovian sit behind her.

"Lieutenant, I _order_ you to resume your approach on the _Wanderer_ immediately!"

"How am I supposed to do that if these Jovians won't let me?" Winters shouted back. "If you want that freighter so much, you scramble the other exos and send them after her. I'm a bit busy now!"

"Now see here . . ."

"Winters out!" Priscilla cut the channel just before she had to face the brunt of another one of Enfield's tirades. "Two, talk to me."

"This guy's pretty good . . ." Sheppard reported. His voice sounded taut, as if he was throwing himself through a series of violent evasive maneuvers. "I'm still defensive."

"Same story here." Priscilla reported as she picked up her wingman with the help of her helmet displays. "Turn left and down. Come right at me and let's see if we can trade partners."

"Got it, One."

Sheppard began to turn towards, leading his pursuer along. The Jovians were taking the bait. Winters smiled. _Good_.

"Odin One, you are requested to leave the area immediately." Chan was saying, though she sounded rather half-hearted about it. "Please comply immediately to avoid an unnecessary incident. We _will_ escort you from the area. Please comply."

_Fat chance_ . . . Winters snorted to herself as she felt the adrenaline pumping through her veins. Now this was what she lived for! And she'd never back down from a challenge before . . .


	21. 021 Out Of Hand

**OUT OF HAND**

_**A force engaged is out of the hand of its commander. **_

-Colonel Charles Ardant du Picq-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**BRIDGE, CSS _ZENSEN_, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT**

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

"Get those other two exos launched!" Enfield was ranting at his bridge crew. The men and women on the _Zensen's_ bridge cringed at the high-pitched quality of their commander's voice.

Kallie Chang had remained mostly silent for the past few minutes as she watched the entire situation unfold and fall apart under her incompetent captain's gross mismanagement. She had silently agreed with Winters' assessment that the incoming exos were Jovian while Enfield insisted they were terrorists until the damning confirmation came through the JAF pilot's radio transmission.

Now she watched unnerved, as her captain became even more unhinged. There was only so much she could take before she felt the need to do something. There was only so much lunacy she could stand before she would snap at the idiot who sat in the _Zensen's_ command chair.

"Captain, it will be another ten minutes before our remaining exos can launch!" came the reply to Enfield's earlier directive.

"Then _hurry_ them, damn it!" Enfield screamed, pounding the arm rest of his seat. "We can't let the _Wanderer_ get away!"

Kallie felt a murderous rage building within her. _The man is an idiot! _On most ships, the crew relied on the captain to make wise decisions that would keep them all alive in combat. But that was most ships. Fate had seemingly decreed that the CSS _Zensen_ wasn't one of those ships.

She found her hand resting on the holster that was fastened to her belt and she was horrified at the thought that she was subconsciously entertaining the prospect of drawing her weapon and shooting Enfield. She probably wouldn't be the first to have ever done it since the CEGA Navy had its fair share of fools and all officers were entitled to carrying sidearms whenever on duty.

Sure, High Command could always rescind its stand on the permissibility of weapons, especially on a ship's bridge. However, most officers had come to see their personal weapons as symbols of authority, the more vainglorious ones opting to carry ornate swords that were of dubious utility. There was no doubt however, about the effectiveness of the heavy semi-automatic pistol strapped to Kallie's hip.

Of course, there was the other openly-acknowledged reason as well. In the event of a boarding action, the bridge officers would need to be able to defend themselves. While a pistol or sword wasn't much against an exo-suited marine it was reassuring to have.

So High Command was willing to tolerate the occasional psycho or disgruntled officer turning a weapon on his or her colleagues. Normally, the others would shoot the offending individual since they too were armed. Ultimately, the weapons were there for the defense of the ship. Kallie wondered if shooting the incompetent captain could be considered a defensive act on behalf of the _Zensen_ and her crew.

Slowly and carefully, she withdrew her hand from the holster, forcing herself to relax. This was not a time to remain silent. As much as she hated the man, she knew she had to do something or people would start to die. Clearing her throat and fighting every instinct that told her otherwise, she finally addressed Enfield for the first time in many minutes.

"Captain," she grated, despising the fact that she had to call him that. "That Jovian pilot mentioned something about her ship being in the area. Shouldn't we at least conduct a full sensor sweep to see if she's telling the truth?"

Captain Roger Enfield, interrupted whilst in the middle of his panic-stricken and irrational tirade, whirled on his First Officer to fix his wide-eyed stare at her. "Of-of course!" He sputtered pathetically. "What are you waiting for, Chang? An engraved invitation from me? You're the First Officer! You're _supposed_ to do these things . . ."

Kallie suppressed the eruption of fury that would have devoured her sanity in an instant had she allowed it to. Once again, her hand hovered dangerously close to her holstered pistol. Expending every last ounce of self-control left in her, she fixed Enfield with an icy cold stare and nodded curtly. "But of course, _sir_. My mistake. Sensors, let's get that sensor sweep now shall we? Maximum power to the sensors if you will, please."

"Aye, ma'am!" The sensor operator replied hurriedly, uneasy at the attention being leveled at him. "Right away, ma'am!"

"Good! I was beginning to think I'm the only one working around here!" Enfield said to no one in particular. Kallie could see several of the bridge crew bristle at that. "Why the hell hasn't Winters gone for the _Wanderer_ yet?"

"Winters reports that she and her wingman are still locked with the Jovians . . ." Ensign Chuikov chimed in hesitantly. "As a matter of fact, Captain, she's requesting an update and clarification on the Rules of Engagement . . ."

"_What_?" Enfield spun his chair violently to face the communications operator who cringed slightly under is wild-eyed gaze. "Can she remember _no_ order at all?"

"Sir," Chuikov coughed nervously before plunging ahead. "She is requesting clearance for weapons release."

"Damn it, are you all insane?" Enfield cried out in exasperation. "Absolutely _not_!"

"Aye aye, Skipper. I'll let her know." Chuikov returned his attention thankfully to his console where he would relay Enfield's response to the exo commander's latest request.

"Yes, you do that! And while you are at it, instruct her to terminate her . . . her childish _jaunt_ with the Jovians and carry out the orders I've given her!" Enfield added shaking with unconcealed rage. Kallie was sure the man was going to throw a fit. "You tell her that we're not going to start a war with the Jovians! What the hell is wrong with _all_ of you? And what about that sensor sweep?"

"The results are coming back in now, sir!" the sensors operator assured, somewhat startled at the unpredictable direction of the Captain's rage.

"Well, hurry up, damn you!"

"Captain!" Kallie called out firmly and clearly, hoping that she could restore a sense of calm to the bridge. "Winters may not be able to break off to intercept the _Wanderer_ unless we can relieve some pressure that's coming from those Jovian exos."

"And I suppose you have a suggestion?" Enfield snapped angrily at her, spinning his chair in her direction once more.

Kallie was taken aback by that response. She hadn't expected him to be lucid enough to actually take her observation seriously. Her intention had merely been to calm her Captain down so that he would be thinking straight lest he get them all killed with his panic and stupidity. "Well, I . . ."

"One that doesn't involve us firing that the Jovians," Enfield asked pointedly. "Or rely on our exos which are taking their own sweet time to launch?" It was about the most sensible thing he had actually said ever since he stepped onto the bridge.

"Well, no . . ."

"Then shut up Chang!" Enfield reprimanded her viciously "Sensors!"

"R-Ready, Captain!"

"Then for God's sake, report!"

"Captain, _please_!" Kallie wasn't sure if she should be in tears at seeing a CEGA ship captain behave in such a pathetic and disgraceful manner. "With all due respect, please calm down!"

"I said shut up, Chang!" Enfield roared at his disobedient First Officer. "One more insubordinate remark from you and I will have you thrown in the brig!"

"Captain . . ." Kallie wasn't going to give up so easily. Not when the lives of everyone aboard the _Zensen_ depended on Enfield's state off mind.

"That's _enough_! I warned you, Chang!" The Captain's face went purple with rage. "I'm placing you und . . ."

"_Captain_!" The sensor operator chose to butt into the conversation with impeccable timing. "I'm holding one spaceship contact, bearing eight by five. Inbound two!"

All conversation on the bridge stopped as the realization struck home. There was a potentially hostile contact a mere eight hundred klicks forward and five hundred klicks to the right of the _Zensen_, inbound at two kilometers per second. With the Zensen's own forward velocity taken into account, this new contact was no more than three or four minutes out. In space combat, that could be considered dangerously if not lethally close. For a _Tengu_, getting that close to an enemy warship was normally suicidal.

Enfield seem to pale visibly at that report. He rotated his chair reluctantly towards the sensor's station, swallowing audibly as he did so. "Type? Class? _What_ is she, Sensors?"

"She's Jovian, Captain. _Forge_-class patrol carrier. Profile seems to match that of the JSS _Forge_." The sensors operator reported. "There's something else, Captain. Two other smaller contacts. Inbound as well. Almost definitely exo armors. Possibly a _Retaliator_ and another _Pathfinder_."

From her point of view, Kallie could see her Captain's features taking on an ashen quality as he moved his lips in a futile attempt to formulate a reply. The look he directed at her was one of pure dread and despair. "This . . . this is all _your_ fault. If . . . if you had . . . called for that sensor sweep . . yes, if you had earlier. If only . . ."

"Captain." Kallie said firmly, ignoring his babbling. "There is a Jovian carrier inbound on us _now_. We will be outnumbered and outgunned. Sir, you _must_ consider our options carefully."

"Yes . . . yes, you're right." Enfield nodded, some color returning to his face. Kallie almost heaved a sigh of relief. Then he hit a stud on his armrest. "Flight Deck, hold the launch of those exos. I want them rearmed for anti-shipping strike immediately."

Kallie felt her heart drop when she heard him utter those words. She tried to keep her tone even. "Captain, I thought we're not supposed to engage the Jovians."

"It's become clear to me that this has been an elaborate ploy to draw us into a trap." Enfield said those words so calmly that Kallie knew he truly believed that he was the victim of some cosmic trick of fate. "The _Wanderer_ was just bait . . ."

Kallie almost felt sorry for the man. He may have been stupid, but he certainly wasn't lacking in the courage department. Of course, courage and stupidity were seldom a good mix. "Sir, it will take at least fifteen minutes to rearm those exos before we can start the launch cycle. Those additional exos will be here by then. And the _Forge_ as well. We will still be outgunned and outnumbered if we choose to fight it out."

"If this is going to end up with shooting, I intend to take that carrier down!" Enfield retorted vigorously.

"Sir, there's _no_ indication that the Jovians are going to attack us." Kallie said calmingly.

"It's obvious from the situation that it will only be a matter of time before they do that." Enfield pointed out, a dangerous glint in his eye. "They're just getting their pieces in place before they strike."

"Sir, there is still time to recall Winters and withdraw." Chang suggested delicately.

"You mean give in to the Jovian demands?" Enfield guffawed. "And let the _Wanderer_ go?"

"That will certainly avoid escalating this issue any further, sir." Kallie offered level-headedly.

"We're already committed, Chang." Enfield said gravely, almost forlornly. "Let's just hope that neither one of us provokes an incident. But if this turns ugly, you can be sure I plan to get some hits in on that carrier."

"Sir, Winters and her wingman are blocked by the Jovians now." Lieutenant Kallie Chang knew it was futile to persuade her commanding officer to adopt a saner course of action but she knew she just had to try.

"And?"

"If they somehow manage to give those exos the slip and approach the _Wanderer_, I have no doubt that the Jovians will fire upon them. The Jovians do have those other two exos that could still intercept Winters short of the _Wanderer_. Or they could hit us as well. And all this time, our exos, which are being prepped for an anti-ship strike, will remain stuck in our hangars."

"So?"

Kallie exhaled, exasperated at the thick-headedness of her superior. "I hate to say this, Captain. But we're at a situation of disadvantage no matter how you look at it."

"Nevertheless, we have our orders and I intend to do my best to carry them out."

"Sir, do you really think that it's possible to see this through without any shooting?" Kallie questioning tone was also pleading. "Sir, there are alternatives . . ."

"Lieutenant Chang, are you implying that I am a coward?"

"Sir, no, sir."

"Then shut up!"

"Captain, Odin One is requesting weapons release . . ." Chuikov winced even as he delivered that latest report.

Chang saw the angry energy flowing back into Enfield's features as he turned to face the communications operator. "Damn it, no! Tell her to hold her fire. Back-up is on the way!"

_And just who is going to back us up_, Chang asked herself darkly, staring at the back of her commander.

"Comms, announce Readiness Five!" Enfield barked. "All crew to battle stations! Stand by for combat!"


	22. 022 Upping The Ante

**UPPING THE ANTE**

_In matters of style swim with the current in matters of principle stand like a rock._

-Thomas Jefferson-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**WATCHDOG ONE, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT**

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

Adelene wasn't too thrilled at the situation she found herself in. So far, she and Winnie had been giving the CEGA exos a run for their money and they hadn't been able to close with the _Wanderer_. Though their opposite numbers were competent pilots, Adelene already knew that the _Syreen_ pilot was the weak link in her opponent's situation.

The other exo armor, presumably the leader, was flying what looked like a heavily modified _Syreen_ that seemed to be every bit as maneuverable as the Jovian _Pathfinders_. She had remembered from an intelligence briefing somewhere that the Earthers had a relatively new machine, dubbed the _Fury_, in production. Encounters with them so far had however been relatively few.

_Fury_ or not, Adelene was sure that she and Winnie still held the upper hand in all this aggressive maneuvering. _At least for a few more minutes or so_. Glancing at her fuel gauge, she noted that her supply of reaction mass was almost gone. And she hadn't needed to burn as hard and fast as Winnie to keep pace with her current quarry, which was the averagely-flown _Syreen_.

The CEGA exos had tried repeatedly to force them both out of position, but Winnie and Adelene had only switched 'partners' when the situation was favorable to them. _So far, so good. Until fuel becomes a problem, of course_.

"Two, talk to me." Adelene called out calmly as she endeavored to keep the _Syreen_ in her forward field of vision.

"I'm still here if that's what you're asking . . ." Winnie drawled, sounding a little distracted. "And I don't intend to be leaving quite yet . . ."

"Same here . . ." Adelene replied, her hands tightening slightly on the controls as she did her best to keep her machine in her target's wake. "How's your fuel?"

"Funny that you should ask . . . " Winnie replied tautly. "I'll be flying on fumes in another minute or so."

"Crap, that's worse than me . . ." Adelene realized that her wingman was going to be in trouble unless they traded sparring partners again soon.

"Doesn't help that this is a pretty decent pilot in one hot exo." Winnie conceded grudgingly.

"Copy that, Two." Adelene keyed a button to switch channels. "Kennel, Kennel, this is Watchdog One. We've got problems . . ."

"Kennel copies. Go ahead, Watchdog." Amanda Loh replied almost instantaneously.

"We're running way low on fuel here . . ."

"Roger that, Watchdog One," Amanda checked her console for a moment. "Ready Five is on the way. ETA is now two minutes."

"We may not have that long." Adelene answered, keeping one nervous eye on her fuel gauge. "Fuel's going to get a bit scary real soon."

"Wait one, Watchdog." Amanda replied.

Her target was rolling again. Though the _Syreen_ has slight better acceleration, even better than her upgraded _Pathfinder_ CT, her machine was far more nimble. And having studied and taught other Jovian pilots about CEGA exo tactics back at JECATS, Adelene had little trouble matching her opponent move for move.

She had always harbored doubts if the tactics the senior instructors had taught her to mimic were really the authentic CEGA stuff. But right now, out in the Belt going head to head with two _bona fide_ CEGA exo jocks, she realized that the Aggressor pilots tasked with playing the bad guys at JECATS were not too far off the mark.

A better pilot might have provided her with more of a challenge but it was clear that her opponent was only a mediocre pilot. He was flying completely by the book – a book that Adelene had come to know intimately well in her time at JECATS. And so she held all the cards_. Until the fuel runs out, of course._

"Watchdog One." It was Captain Polwalski herself who appeared on the screen. "Come in."

"Here, Captain." Adelene responded at once.

"Captain Dicher is on the way. Can you hold out till he arrives?"

Adelene checked her fuel gauge what seemed to be the thirtieth time in as many seconds. "It's going to be iffy for me. And a definite no for my wingman, Captain. We're almost on vapor."

Polwalski deliberate for a moment that seemed to stretch on for an eternity as Adelene sat sweating in her cockpit, her linear frame still gripping tightly to her body as she maneuvered her machine with deft body movements. The Captain had probably taken all of three seconds to make a decision but to Adelene, it felt like three lifetimes.

"Very well, I'm granting you clearance to initiate weapons lock. But hold your fire." There was a hard edge of grim determination in Polwalski's tone. "Let's see if we can scare these bastards out of here."

"Music to my ears, Captain."

"Don't screw this up, Chan." Polwalski held up a finger for emphasis. "And for God's sake, be careful."

"Don't screw up. Be careful. Got it." Adelene nodded eagerly. "Two, you heard that?"

"Yeah . . ." Winnie replied tentatively. "I'm having a bit of trouble with this guy though."

"Can you shake him?" Adelene asked, a note of worry creeping into her tone. She could see that the _Fury_ certainly was a superior machine to the _Syreen_. And the pilot was certainly no slouch. _Creative too . . . _judging from the way he was making his high-end exo dance through the void.

"Well, I'm sure gonna try . . ."

"Give him a run for his money." Adelene answered, keeping one eye on her wingman. "I'm going for weapons lock on my guy. Let's see if we can scare these guys out of here. You just keep that guy off your tail."

"No problem," Winnie replied tersely. "Just as long as fuel lasts."

Adelene flicked the weapon selector switch on her control stick, selecting one of her two shoulder-mounted MMJ-4 medium-ranged missiles. A lighted box flashed into existence around the _Syreen_ in front of her. A separate diamond-shaped pipper began to dance around the target, a warbling tone sounding in her ears as the missile attempted to achieve lock-on.

The MMJ-4 was the standard medium-ranged missile in the JAF inventory. With enough range to make it a good interception weapon and a decent warhead attached to a smart seeker head that allowed a great deal of autonomy after launch, the MMJ-4 was an excellent 'fire-and-forget' weapon which made it perfect for swirling melees involving multiple exos and fighters.

She felt a familiar thrill of excitement passing through her as the warbling became more urgent and solid. She remembered the time she had fired a shot in anger, in the vicinity of the Olympian capital. She had been flying a _Lancer_ Bomber then. And in that massive battle, she had been lucky enough to down two exos with MMJ-4 missiles. She had fallen prey to the trap of thinking she was good after that Battle. But the months spent at JECATS served to show that she had been lucky then.

Now, she was certainly better. And the familiar lock-on tone was sounding in her ears. Sure, she had heard it countless times in simulated battles against her colleagues who came to Solomon Base to train. But none of those flights involved a live missile tracking a real enemy, its seeker head baying for blood.

The tone rang solidly in her ears as the targeting diamond superimposed itself over the target box. A feline smile flashed across her face as the targeting symbols flashed red on her heads-up display. With a bit of luck, this guy could be Kill Number Three for her. _That would certainly be something. _

Her finger hovered over the firing trigger on her control stick.


	23. 023 Misfire

**MISFIRE**

_I am more afraid of our own blunders than of the enemy's devices._

-Pericles-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**ODIN TWO, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT **

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

The lock-on warning tone shrilled in Alan Sheppard's ears as he threw his _Syreen_ into another wild barrel roll in a desperate effort to get clear of his tormentor. So far, all they had been doing was maneuvering about aggressively with both sides vying for the better position. It was tense, but at the same time almost exciting.

Even though he was bested time and again by his Jovian counterparts, it felt good to be pitting himself against pilots from another nation in different exo armors. At least this encounter would give him some things to work on in the simulators when he got back to the _Zensen_. Or so he had thought.

But it had all ceased to be a matter of excitement or self-improvement when the lock-on warning screamed in his ears.

Now with a Jovian _Pathfinder_ sitting right behind him and a solid missile lock ringing in his ears, any thought of this being anything like a game evaporated. Sweat pouring freely despite the cool, controlled atmosphere of his sealed flight suit,

Sheppard was jerking the control sticks and moving his body about wildly, trying his best to throw off his opponent's lock. But even with the liberal application of overthrust, coupled with the desperate and random inputs to his maneuvering verniers, the tone screamed stubbornly in his ears.

"Oh, _shit_!"

"Two, what's wrong?" Priscilla asked sounding slightly peeved at the apparent interruption of her concentration.

"Damn it, One! He's got a missile lock on me!" Sheppard cried out, peering over his shoulder at the _Pathfinder_ sticking to his tail, noting that his pursuer was so close that he could actually make out some the individual rivets on the Jovian exo-armor.

"Shake him, Two!" Winters yelled back over the radio. "Get the hell _away_ from that guy!"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Sheppard retorted angrily, feeling a growing sense of panic as the lock-on alert continued to scream in his ears.

A part of him wished he could just shut off the damn noise so that he could concentrate on his flying. He could imagine the look of glee on the Jovian pilot's face. He certainly had Alan where he wanted him and there was just no shaking him now.

"Reverse thrust _now_!" Winters was yelling. "Let him overshoot!"

Alan Sheppard felt like kicking himself. It was one of the simplest maneuvers in the book. It was a technique that was almost as old as aerial combat itself. All he needed to do was kill his speed suddenly enough and his pursuer would overshoot him. With a bit of luck, their positions might even be reversed. Throwing a glance over his shoulder for another look, he saw that the _Pathfinder_ was still behind him. _Here goes_ . . .

Grabbing the throttle lever, he hauled it back abruptly before hitting a button that fired the maneuvering jets that would kill his forward momentum. The suddenly deceleration threw him violently forward against his linear frame restraints. His helmet slammed and rebounded off a nearby instrument panel and he saw stars. Only the solid construction of his flight helmet saved him from anything worse than being dazed.

Twin suns flashed into his forward view and he realized that the _Pathfinder_ had overshot him but was decelerating far more rapidly that he was. A few more meters and he'd end up in the Jovian exo's still-glowing thruster cones!

Working his controls desperately, he felt his universe pirouette around him. Somewhere above, below, beside him, the Jovian _Pathfinder_ was whirling, its own flaring maneuvering thrusters and wild gyrations making it appear as an out-of-control constellation tumbling in the inky blackness. Terrified at the prospect of a fiery collision at any second, he let out a panicked cry.

"_Two_!"

The fact that he was hearing his flight leader's voice was confirmation that he was still alive. Or at least he thought he was hearing her. The _Syreen_ was still spinning wildly as he gripped the control sticks forcefully to regain control.

"Two, are you alright?"

"Think so," Sheppard replied breathlessly. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he barely noticed that the missile lock warning was gone. He desperately scanned his forward view for a glimpse of his pursuer, hoping that the tables had somehow been turned. "Damn, I lost him!"

"Behind you, Two!" Winters called out excitedly. "He's right _behind_ you!"

"Where . . .?" Sheppard pulled back on the stick, putting his exo into a steep 'climb' while looking directly upwards. His eyes widened as he saw the _Pathfinder_ swooping towards him, its bulk blocking out the light of the distant sun. "_Crap_!"

He shoved the throttle forward and felt his main thrusters respond immediately by kicking his _Syreen_ forward. As the _Pathfinder_ dropped out of sight, he realized belatedly that he had made a mistake. The missile lock-on warning tone began to sound again as the _Pathfinder_ slipped into a slot behind him.

"Damn it, this guy's all over me here!"

"Keep weaving, Two!" Winters sounded somewhat distant and distracted, probably by her own opponent. "You can do it, Shep!"

"To hell with this shit, he's _engaging_ me!" There was a tremor in Alan's voice as he began his evasive maneuvers once again, the warning tone beeping urgently as a reminder of his opponent's questing targeting system. "Valhalla, Valhalla, this is Odin Two, do I have permission to fire?"

Captain Enfield's scowling face appeared on the communications video pick-up. "Negative, Odin Two. Do _not_ fire unless fired upon!"

"Sir, I . . ." Sheppard couldn't believe what he was hearing. Here was a Jovian exo obviously making a hostile move towards him and his captain was regurgitating rules of engagement like a mindless drone. _Wait . . . even modern combat drones were brighter than _that!

"Sit tight, Ensign." Enfield said, looking away distractedly from Sheppard. "Reinforcements will be en route to your position soon."

"Captain, that's not . . ." Sheppard wished there was just some way he could trade places with his idiot of a commanding officer.

"Enough, Ensign! One more interruption from you and I'll have you up on charges!" Enfield roared, fixing the young, panicking exo pilot with a withering glare. "Enfield out!"

Just as the video screen went blank, Sheppard heard the shrill, solid tone shrieking into his ears. "Oh, shit! He's got a lock on me! He's got a lock!"

"Reverse thrust again, Shep!" Winters was yelling. "Go, go, _go_!"

The Jovian exo loomed in to obscure his entire rear view. It was so close he was almost sure he could touch it. And it wasn't slowing. If it got any closer, they were going to . . .

"_Shit_!" Ensigne Sheppard felt his fingers turn to thumbs as his mind went blank. He worked his controls in blind, all-consuming panic, pulling back the throttle and wrestling the flight control stick woodenly in one final, supreme effort to shake his pursuer.

It was unfortunate that in their effort to minimize the need for the _Syreen_ pilot to take his hands off the controls sticks, the machine's designers had left the control yokes studded with as many buttons as they could squeeze onto them.

It was unfortunate then that Ensign Alan Sheppard accidentally enabled the arming switch for the computer-guided LACW-12S Active Close Defense Laser System that comprised of four independently-tracking turrets on his machine's hull.

Pilot input was normally required for firing but in Ensign's Sheppard's case, it was unfortunate again that the designers of the system had included an automatic defense mode that allowed the firing computer to take over and engage any enemy got too close.

It was unfortunate yet again that Sheppard's Jovian pursuer was so close that he was well within the 25-meter automatic engagement radius of the ACDLS.

Faster than any human eye could follow, the turret arrays shifted and energy flowed from the fusion reactor through power conduits and into the focusing lenses before being violently released as pulses of coherent light energy towards the only viable target in range . . .


	24. 024 Out Of Control

**OUT OF CONTROL**

_If I am to be hanged for it, I cannot accuse a man who I believe has meant well, and who error was one of judgment and not of intention._

-Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**WATCHDOG ONE, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT **

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

The targeting box that was superimposed on her target's center of mass had been flashing red for several long seconds, accompanied by the shrilling lock-on tone when the first spears of lambent light slashed out towards her. At a distance of less than twenty-five meters, Adelene's mind barely had the time to register the deadly bursts of light energy before they started striking her _Pathfinder_.

Being bombarded by light energy, Adelene couldn't feel the impact of those blows on her exo-armor. Several alerts sounded in her headset even as one of the beams missed her exo's head unit by mere inches, scoring a deep gouge in her _Pathfinder's_ armored carapace. All that happened in the span of less than two seconds and only her machine's HEAT-resistant armor saved her from the otherwise devastating barrage loosed by the _Syreen's_ automated turrets.

"What the . . .?" Finally realizing that she was genuinely under fire, her mind reacted with rage rather than fear.

Conditioned by countless hours of mock dogfights and having been in real combat before, Adelene's reaction was almost thoughtless. With her target still haloed in her HUD and her own missile lock-on tone still chiming despite the cacophony of other alarms, she squeezed the firing trigger even as she flung her _Pathfinder_ out of the line of fire.

There was a gentle bump as the missile separated from its shoulder hardpoint, its inbuilt thruster flaring brilliantly to life as its smart seeker marked the CEGA _Syreen_ for destruction.

"This is Watchdog One, taking fire! _Taking fire_!" She yelled into her helmet pickup. Then somewhat belatedly, she added, "Missile away!"

"Watchdog, Watchdog, this is Kennel!" Corporal Loh's wide-eyed look of horror mixed with confusion would have been hilarious if the situation hadn't been so dangerous. "_What _is going on over there, Watchdog?"

"I'm hit, I'm hit!" "Adelene cried out in replied, scanning her myriad array of instruments and taking particular note of all the red lights that were flashing.

There were far too many of them for her comfort. Looking around desperately, she tried to reacquire her target. The _Syreen_ that had opened fire on her was zigzagging away unscathed. Apparently her hurriedly launched missile had failed to track and had missed completely.

It was of no matter though. The CEGA pilot was still running and she wasted no time in giving chase. "Watchdog One, engaging!"

Her machine was responding a little less nimbly now. Her master cautionary panel told her that she had taken some hits to her machine's left leg thrusters as well as the left shoulder modular thruster block. The output from those thrusters was somewhat erratic now and she could sense the still-minute differences in her exo's overall performance. A warning light was also flashing that her starboard upper torso had taken a hit and the sensor located there had been blasted, leaving a slice of blindness in her overall field of vision.

"Watchdog One, _what_ are you engaging?" Amanda looked absolutely distraught. "_What_ are you doing?"

Adelene didn't respond. The _Syreen_ that had so brazenly opened fire on her was maneuvering again. She recognized the Earther pilot's intention He was trying to disengage.

_Oh, no you don't_, she thought viciously as spun around to track the fleeing _Syreen_. Even with her battle damage, her machine remained the more nimble of the two. _I'm going to make you regret not finishing me when you had the chance_ . . .

"Watchdog One! What . . ." Amanda's bewildered face was abruptly replaced by the helmeted head of Captain Ron Dicher.

Though she couldn't see his face behind the helmet and visor, his voice betrayed his emotions. While he wasn't as panicky as the enlisted communications operator whom he was interrupting, he wasn't exactly sanguine either. "What's going on out there?"

"That _Syreen_ opened fire on me, sir!" Adelene answered impatiently, knowing that she couldn't ignore her commander and mentor. "Got me in leg and shoulder thrusters!"

"How's your fuel?"

Adelene resisted the temptation to slap her forehead. She had totally forgotten! She had been so engrossed in getting back at her attacker that she had just thrusted around like a woman possessed. A quick glance at her instruments gave unpleasant news. "Almost out, sir."

"Hang on. We're on our way . . ." Dicher assured, before his face was replaced by Captain Polwalksi's.

"Watchdog, report!" The _Forge's_ captain was scowling. Adelene could see that red battlelamps were flashing behind Polwalski as the _Forge_ went to Red Alert.

She fought every urge to roar in frustration at her Captain. Instead, she managed to exert some control over herself before answering. "That _Syreen_ fired on me, Captain. I'm engaging now."

"You're absolutely positive that you were fired upon first?" Captan Polwalski sounded more anxious than skeptical.

"I've got the hits to prove it, Captain." Adelene replied peevishly. "But I'm still in the fight."

Captain Polwalski seemed to hesitate for the first time that day. But it lasted for only a fraction of a second before her features took on a diamond-hard quality. Adelene was almost sure she saw rage flaring in those harsh, black eyes. "Then I guess we have no choice. You have weapons free, Watchdog. _Kill_ those exos _now_."

"Roger that!" Adelene replied exuberantly. Even though she had already opened fire, she still felt a tremendous thrill at being empowered to proceed with the destruction of her opponent. "Heard that, Two?"

"Yeah . . ." Winnie sounded tense and preoccupied. "That's going to be a problem for me. This guy is good. And I almost all out of fuel . . ."

"Oh, crap . . ." Adelene felt her stomach knotting as she scanned the skies for her wingman. "Skipper, I could do with those Ready Five exos real quick."

"Bandog Flight is on the way," Captain Dicher said, breaking back into the circuit. Obviously, he had been listening into the conversation taking place between his pilot and the carrier. "Going to overthrust now. I can be there in thirty seconds."

"Negative, Bandog."

"What?" Dicher excalimed in astonishment, before adjusting his tone. "I mean, say again, Kennel?"

"Negative, Bandog." Polwalski repeated firmly. "I want you to strike that _Tengu_. See if you can disarm or cripple it."

"But . . ."

"The _Wanderer_ is our priority. We must disable the _Tengu_ before she can either launch more exos or her own missiles."

Adelene felt her stomach turning to ice. She could handle her target, but after that, she and Winnie were going to have problems with the _Fury_. Distracted by the conversation she didn't notice her target drifting into her sights until it was almost too late.

She squeezed the trigger instinctively and sent a beam of high energy ions stabbing out after the fleeting _Syreen_. She almost missed. Instead, her shot clipped the CEGA exo's shoulder. Sparks and chunks of armor spun off the _Syreen's_ right shoulder and it jerked, like a man being struck by a bullet.

"But what about Watchdog?" Dicher pressed, refusing to relent.

"They'll have to hold out on their own." Polwalski answered icily. "We need that _Tengu_ out of action _now_!"

"Understood, Skipper." The exo squadron commander grated. "Targeting the _Tengu_ now."

"Watchdog, I'm sorry. You're on your own for now." The _Forge's_ captain said grimly, looking Adelene in the eye. "As soon as we've crippled that _Tengu_, I'll send Bandog to assist you."

"Watchdog copies." Adelene replied, sounding a little hoarse. _That's if we're still here_ . . .

"Hang tough, Watchdog." Polwalski nodded grimly. "Kennel out."

Adelene swallowed. "Two . . ."

"Engaging. Firing now . . . " Winnie announced, anticipating her wingleader's query. "Missed! Uh oh, there goes the last of my fuel . . ."

"Hang on, I'm on the way!" Adelene stared at the slightly damaged _Syreen_. It was still heading away. She could catch up with it if she tried. For a painful instant, she felt torn between chalking up an easy kill . . . or going to the immediate aid of a wingman.

It was a dilemma that had faced countless pilots since the dawn of aerial warfare and it was one that she had faced numerous times in simulated dogfights from Advanced Exo Training all the way through to her time at JECATS. This was where a pilot's aggressive instincts would wage war with common sense.

The _Syreen_ was turning a little now, presenting its side to her but still not presenting itself as a threat to Winnie or her. She could just thrust after it right now . . . One good blast from her particle cannon into its side would shatter the relatively fragile machine . . . _One good blast_ . . . Adelene grit her teeth as her heart raged against her mind.

It took all of two seconds to decide. But in a high-speed dogfight, two seconds spent thinking was two seconds wasted. Adelene made her choice and fired her maneuvering thrusters.

"Hang on, Winnie! I'm inbound."


	25. 025: Turning Tables

TURNING TABLES 

_In war we must always leave room for strokes of fortune and accidents that cannot be foreseen. _

-Polybius-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**ODIN ONE, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT **

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

Priscilla was laughing as she rolled out of the way of yet another beam of charged particles. Now in combat and under fire, the _Fury_ was performing like a dream. The _Syreen_ she used to fly couldn't even come close to the state-of-the-art machine that now served as an extension of her body. Flying a _Syreen_ had often been compared to flying with lead weights strapped to one's arms. However, piloting the _Fury_ was probably the closest to real flying the Priscilla had ever come.

Looking over her shoulder, she noticed that her pursuer was falling behind. The _Pathfinder's_ particle cannon vomited another desultory beam, which she easily avoided yet once more. There was something wrong with the Jovian exo. It was suddenly lagging behind, as if unwilling to continue its pursuit. And then she was overcome with glee when she realized what was going on.

_The Jovian is running out of re-mass_!

The tables were now turned! She had been so engrossed in trying to get the better position earlier that she hadn't realized the shooting had started until the _Pathfinder_ sent a beam of charged ions at her machine while she was still trying to sort out Sheppard's fragmentary report about being fired upon by his pursuer. Only her natural reflexes had allowed her to dodge the first shot but it had placed her in a position of disadvantage.

Now, after deftly avoiding several shots that had been directed at her, Priscilla's opponent was finally out of fuel. And now it would be her turn to exact her revenge. Burning her retros, she killed her acceleration and swung around to face the _Pathfinder_ that was still hurtling forward on inertia.

The humanoid _Pathfinder_ came on, its right arm rising to point its particle cannon at her. The arm-mounted weapon fired again and Priscilla nearly paid for her arrogance when the energy bolt clipped her machine. Even without fuel, this Jovian wasn't ready to call it a day and disengage.

Locking up the offending _Pathfinder _with her targeting system, she watched the superimposed target box flash around the _Pathfinder_ as the turrets for her advanced 'Hecatonchires' ACDLS acquired the Jovian machine. With a rush of exhilaration, her finger closed around the firing trigger.

Brilliant beams of light energy stung out in streams towards the _Pathfinder_ and the Jovian exo fired its maneuvering thrusters suddenly and wildly in an effort to dodge the incoming volleys. Several beams managed to connect, gouging deep gashes into the _Pathfinder's_ bodywork though its HEAT-resistant armor minimized the overall damage done by the _Fury's _lasers.

Another particle bolt came streaming her way and Priscilla was forced to cease firing in order to avoid this latest attack. It still managed to glance her _Fury's_ armpit, scorching an area just under her left manipulator arm, above her auxiliary reaction mass pod and right next to her cockpit. A shower of sparks cascaded down on her, serving as a harsh reminder that unlike atmospheric aerial combat, an exo without fuel in space, could still maneuver despite possessing no means of acceleration.

But every evasive maneuver she forced her opponent to perform now, robbed the _Pathfinder _of whatever velocity it had already built up beforehand. Sooner or later, the Jovian exo would finally run out of forward momentum and it would become the proverbial sitting duck.

Without fuel, the Jovian couldn't flee. Not fast enough, at least. Already, the _Pathfinder's_ velocity was dropping and she had to adjust her own speed to stay in range.

The particle cannon fired again and she dodged, unleashing another flurry of laser fire from her remote turrets. Again the Jovian pilot spun, whirled and pirouetted in an effort to avoid getting hit. And again, several beams of light slashed into the _Pathfinder's_ armor. A pair of bolts caught the Jovian machine in the left elbow joint. There was a burst of fire and light as armor plating was reduced to molten slag and the myomer bundles fused. Globules of molten metal spun away, solidifying almost instantly in the deathly cold of space.

The _Pathfinder_ seemed to reel backwards as its left forearm peeled away. Priscilla felt a rush of excitement as she slowed down to maintain the range. But the Jovian wasn't through. Not yet. The missile lock-on warning began to sound in her ears and she felt a flash of panic.

So far she had been using her lasers since they were more effective in a dogfight. Knowing the imbecile that Captain Enfield was, she knew it was best to conserve her missiles as long as she didn't endanger herself in the process. No matter, she could always blast off the shoulder that housed the Jovian's missiles. Priscilla knew she shouldn't be playing around with her enemy but she just couldn't help it. As spirited as her opponent may be, he was still a sitting duck.

"Lead, _behind_ you! Look out!" Sheppard's panicked cry coincided with the missile lock-on warning tone shrilling in her ears and her body threw itself involuntarily against the linear frame with a start, spoiling her aim.

Even as her shots went wide, she was already craning her neck to look over her shoulder to see the other Jovian exo bearing in on her. There was a small flash on the newcomer's shoulder as its remaining missile separated from its hardpoint and ignited its internal drive.

It was only then that it dawned on her that that her target hadn't been the one trying to lock on to her with a missile. And it had been a near-fatal assumption to make. Of course, it could still be fatal if she didn't do something about the incoming missile . . .

"Missile launch!" Shepperd called out, a few seconds too late.

Realizing that the missile was just moments away from impact, Priscilla finally managed to shake off her surprise and thumb the button that toggled her Hecatonchires system into anti-missile mode. The bulbous laser turrets, currently configured for firing powerful, long-ranged beams switched their fire mode instantly. Tracking the incoming missile, they spat out lower intensity bolts at three times their normal rate of fire, filling the area around the _Fury_ with a lethal web of light energy.

Chunks of metal were rasped off the incoming missile's fuselage before a trio of shots slashed right through the warhead, detonating the guided projectile in spectacular blast that washed over the _Fury_. Priscilla gritted her machine was buffeted by the blast and pelted by debris. The status lights on her master caution advisory board remained blessedly green but she winced at the fact that she had only barely escaped crippling damage to her exo.

"That was _close_!" Winters exclaimed to no one in particular.

"He's still on you, Lead!" Sheppard warned. "Break, break, break!"

"You're supposed to be keeping him off my tail, Two!" Winters yelled back in response as she threw her machine into a violent, breaking maneuver to throw off her new attacker's aim.

Looking over her shoulder, she could see that the _Pathfinder_ Alpha that she had been so close to destroying was now beginning to escape. Cursing under her breath, her gaze shifted to the other _Pathfinder_ that was now attacking her. From the glowing halo of light surrounding the other Jovian exo, it was clear that this machine hadn't run out of fuel yet.

A quick glance at the sensor display showed the local situation all too clearly. Her wingman wasn't where he ought to be.

"Get back here and cover my tail, you idiot!"

"Yes, ma'am . . ." Sheppard's voice stammered in reply. "I'm on my way . . ."

"Well, hurry up, damn it!" Winters fumed at the escaping Jovian and then at her new attacker.

She had been so close so scoring a kill when her wingman had to screw it all up by being out of position long enough for the other _Pathfinder_ to disengage and head for her. The _Pathfinder_ CT raised its rifle-shaped particle cannon and hurled a lance of crackling blue energy towards her. It was a long-ranged shot but this other Jovian pilot seemed to be a better shot and Priscilla barely avoided taking the hit 'in the face'.

Red warning lights flashed as the shot grazed her _Fury's _head and vaporized some of the relatively fragile antennae. A number of sensor screens went blank and she felt a twisting sensation in her gut as she realized that she would have to get serious again if she intended to make it through this skirmish unscathed.

She switched her Hecatonchires system back to its ranged mode and waited for the _Pathfinder_ to slip ever closer into range . . .

The tables had turned again.


	26. 026 Remain Calm

**REMAIN CALM**

To the man who is in terror and bordering on panic, no influence can be more steadying that that of seeing some other man near him who is retaining self-control and doing his duty.

-Brigadier General SLA Marshall-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**BRIDGE, CSS _ZENSEN_, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT**

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

"What the _hell_ is going on out there?" Captain Enfield asked for what seemed to be the hundredth time. "Damn it, _who_ the hell was the _idiot_ who fired the first shot?"

The bridge had exploded into a flurry of unchecked and unbridled pandemonium the moment reports came in that shots were being exchanged. Kallie glanced at the bridge chronometer and noted that little over a minute had elapsed since the first shot was supposedly fired. But even that was hard enough to ascertain since it was still unclear who had fired the first shot.

"What do you mean, you 'don't know'?" Enfield was berating the sensors operator now. Clearly, he wasn't ready to give up finding answers so soon. "Weren't you watching your scope when the shooting started?"

The hapless sensors operator stared at the Captain, mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a fish out of water. He tried to return his attention to his console in an effort to avert his commander's wrath but Enfield stopped him short. "_Damn it_, Sensors! Look at me when I'm talking to you! Aren't you supposed to keep a good watch? Are you trying to get us all killed?"

Kallie Chang felt that sickening urge to shoot her Captain once more. Instead, she called out to him again, breaking her silence. "Sir, we will _all_ be killed if you don't let him watch his scope now! Sir, you have got to remain calm!"

Enfield whirled on his First Officer and Kallie could feel the searing heat of his gaze as it settled on her. "Chang! I thought I had you arrested!"

"Apparently not, Skipper." Kallie shot back, resisting the urge to flash him a wry grin. "We've got bigger things to worry about now, Captain!"

"Yes, you will have bigger things to worry about now . . ." Enfield said menacingly as he looked down at the armrest of his command chair and depressed the comm stud. "Security . . ."

Kallie felt her features flush at the realization that Enfield was really going to have her arrested after all. Her hand dropped onto her holster but before she could draw the weapon, the Sensors Operator, released to return his attention to his instruments, cried out in unconcealed horror.

"Captain, the second pair of Jovian exos . . . They're accelerating towards _us_!"

"What?" Enfield spun his head back at the Sensors station.

"It's confirmed! One _Retaliator_ and one _Pathfinder_. Both appear to be Alphas . . . boosting up to lightning strike speed!"

_Damn_ . . . Kallie swallowed hard at that report. It might be too late for anything else except to try and abandon ship as soon as possible. A _Tengu_-class escort carrier, without exos to defend it, was no match for the two state-of-the-art Jovian machines that were now screaming towards them at ever-increasing velocity. A quick glance at the Captain revealed that his features had taken on an ashen quality once again.

"Good God . . " Enfield whispered as he stared at the images being updated to the main display. The two arrowheads representing the second pair of Jovian exos were screaming in at seemingly impossible speeds now, burning up their precious re-mass at a prodigious rate in an effort to attack at speeds that would render the _Zensen's_ defensive measures almost useless.

"Captain, they're closing in fast! ETA is forty seconds!"

Captain Roger Enfield recoiled as if he had been struck by the revelation that his ship and all aboard might have less than a minute left to live. Short of a miracle, there was no way the _Zensen_ could escape with anything less than crippling damage.

Kallie could sense the man's anguish at the realization of what he had just allowed to happen. The tension of the bridge stretched tighter than a drum and everyone waited for orders that might send them scrambling for the escape pods.

"Thirty seconds, Captain!" came the Sensors Operator's update. "What do you want us to do?"

"_Captain_!" Kallie called out, hoping to shake him from his reverie. "What are your orders?"

Captain Enfield gulped once, but said nothing. His eyes were wide and fixed on the pair of blips racing towards the center of this display. The tension on the bridge was ratcheted up several notches when it was clear that their commander had frozen.

And Captain Roger Enfield had chosen the worst of all possible times to panic.

"_Captain_!" Kallie yelled again but there was still no response.

"Twenty seconds! I'm picking up indications of possible missile launch!"

Unable to bear it any longer, Kallie unsnapped her seat harness, threw off the straps and propelled herself over to where the Captain was sitting. Grabbing two handfuls of his uniform, she shook him violently, taking care to enunciate each word clearly for him. "Captain, we are sitting ducks here! What the hell do you want us to do?"

Enfield turned to stare at his First Officer. For a heart-breaking moment, his eyes were round and glazed. Then they hardened suddenly and refocused. Grabbing Kallie's wrists, he shoved her away violently, sending her sprawling towards a nearby console. "Get your hands off me, Chang! Don't . . . you . . . _ever _. . . touch me again!"

"Fifteen seconds!"

"Activate point defense! Kill those exos!" Enfield literally screamed. "Helm, come right zero-nine-zero! Down zero-two-zero! Maximum thrust now!"

If it weren't for the fact that she was trying to catch her breath after her unplanned collision with Ensign Chuikov's console, Kallie would have heaved a sigh of relief as the Weapons Officer and the Helmsman acknowledged the Captain's instructions. But her relief would have been short-lived in any case since the Jovian exos were almost on top of them now.

"Ten seconds!" The _Tengu _lurched as it began to take on its new heading, antiquated maneuvering verniers howling in protest at the abuse. The hull shook as the engines strained once more to provide additional thrust needed to push the _Tengu_ out of the way. Everyone on the bridge was holding on to something, bracing for the impact that would inevitably come.

Enfield had decided to fight and there would be no mad scramble for the escape pods now.

The presence of acceleration simulated gravity and Kallie managed to dragged her way back to her station, throwing herself down into her seat before working the restraints once more. Like others on the bridge, she took a moment to ensure her spacesuit was properly sealed.

"Five seconds! Missile launch! Missile launch! I count six, no, _eight_ missiles!"

"Point defense . . ." Enfiled began.

"Engaging now!" The weapons officer cried out.

The point defense emitter turrets, similar to those on a _Syreen_ or _Fury_, swiveled into action, pumping out needle after needle of coherent light energy at the incoming wave of missiles. It was a complex ballet as the ship was still turning and accelerating.

The turrets, studding the carrier's hull, had to track the each incoming missile while on the move. External cameras showed several flashes blossoming into existence as fire from the _Zensen's_ point defense system found its mark. Four of the incoming missiles were shot down within three seconds but that left four more to complete their attack while their fellows died.

_Too late_ . . . Kallie thought as she saw the four blips representing the missile merge with the _Zensen_. She gripped the armrests of her seat as tightly as she could and felt the _Zensen_ tremor under the force of four hammer blows. The ripple of explosions was almost enough to throw her out of her seat in spite of her restraints. The lights flickered for a moment then died out before being replaced by red-hued emergency lighting.

There was a screech following the thunderous blasts. It was the sound of tortured metal as it was stretched, pushed and pulled to its limit and beyond. On the external cameras, Kallie could see large chunks of the hull shearing away from gaping holes rent in the _Zensen's_ side. A missile had impacted against the escort carrier's armored prow, causing the armor plating to buckle but otherwise doing little damage to the internal systems that the shattered plates had been shielding.

A second missile had crashed into the ship's lower plasma drive, the resultant explosion vaporizing a large chunk of the of the portside drive fin. The third missile slammed amidships, embedding itself in the ship's hull before detonating, the blast engulfing a section of crew quarters that had been thankfully empty.

But it was the final missile that did the most damage. Streaking head-on into the massive armored hatch used to seal the vehicle bay opening, it struck where the two halves of the hatch met. Though designed to withstand the rigors of combat, the _Zensen's_ hatches had been poorly-maintained.

Since they were hardly opened in the first place to launch exos as per Enfield's standing orders, there had been little need to keep them well-maintained – especially when they were so many other more vital systems failing in the vehicle bay on such a regular basis.

Such circumstances were to have a tragic outcome for the crew of the portside vehicle bay who were still struggling to rearm a _Syreen_ for anti-shipping strike when the missile struck. It detonated against the thick, armored doors, but the blast blew the hatch halves apart, sending a storm of red-hot shrapnel sweeping into the bay, scything down the exposed deck crews who were poorly-protected by the woefully thin work suits that they wore.

Men and women died in the soundless vacuum of the vehicle bay and blood jetted from wounds to forms spherical mists in the zero gravity environment. Fragments pinged harmlessly off the _Syreen_ as it lay on its launch cradle as the surviving crew sought shelter from the storm of deadly debris. Then a still-glowing piece of the disintegrated Jovian missile, no larger than a thumb, punctured a reaction mass tank.

Almost instantly, its pressurized contents ignited, sending a billowing orb of burning hydrogen blossoming through the vehicle bay, setting people and other flammable objects alight. Several members of the deck crew, ignoring the clear and present danger, rushed to move the waiting anti-ship ordnance out of the flames' reach. Many were burnt and several died but as a result, only a single light missile was detonated in the firestorm, the blast blowing out of the already ruptured bay doors.

What little atmosphere there had been left in the vehicle bay rushed out into the inky blackness of space and the flames, starved of oxygen having already consumed the hydrogen from the punctured re-mass tank, died out almost immediately and fortuitously.

In less than ten seconds, the port vehicle bay had been transformed into a vision of hell, with the _Syreen_ nothing more than a burnt-out husk and half of its attendant crew killed – sliced to pieces by shrapnel or burnt by fire.

Meanwhile, damage control crews rushed to the impact points as the _Zensen_, with one drive fin blasted badly out of alignment, began to tumble out of control, debris spilling out of its shattered port vehicle bay.

And then even the dim red emergency lighting in the bridge went out.


	27. 027 Death In The Void

**DEATH IN THE VOID**

Only the dead have seen the end of war.

-Attributed to Plato-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**ODIN TWO, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT **

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

"This is Valhalla, we're hit! We're . . ." The video feed from the CSS _Zensen_ died with frightening abruptness as orange spheres of fire bloomed from its ruptured hull. Sheppard was too far away to see it happening with his own eyes, but a real-time optical feed showed him a grainy image of his mothership staggering under the serious but apparently non-lethal blow.

As much as he worried about the condition of his base carrier, he knew there was nothing he could do about it for now. He was too far away to be of any help to the ship. But on the other hand, he was right here, in a dogfight – and his wing leader was still in trouble.

Now that was a situation he could do something about.

Alan Sheppard felt his nerves tingling on end as the lock-on tone sounded in his ears. With former his attacker now pursuing his wing leader and the other Jovian exo struggling around the battlefield without fuel, Sheppard had a clear run on the _Pathfinder_ CT that was now attacking Lieutenant Winters. He waited a half-second longer as the tone screamed urgently in his headset, then pulled the firing trigger twice in rapid succession.

There was a momentary delay, no longer than a heartbeat, before a pair of A3 'Deathsong' medium missiles separated from their hardpoints located on the _Syreen's_ wing-like appendages. The pair of guided projectiles, free from the grip of their mothercraft, ignited their own thrusters and leapt forward, electronic brains homing in on their assigned target.

"Missiles away!" He announced so that Winters would be aware that the pair of incoming missiles were his.

Sheppard felt his mouth going dry as the missiles began to track after their initial acceleration. Ahead, Winters and the Jovian were barely visible as tiny, pinpricks of light as they continued their deadly dance around each other. He saw a spear of crackling blue energy streak out from one of the flecks, briefly illuminating the airless void before it connected with the other speck of metal. Even from such a distance, Sheppard could see that Winters' _Fury_ had finally taken a hit it couldn't ignore.

"I'm hit!" Winters cried out, as if to confirm what he was thinking. "Damn it, Shep! Where the hell are you?"

"I've got two missiles on the way, ma'am!" Sheppard replied, noting with approval that the missiles were now curving towards the Jovian _Pathfinder_. The Jovian was fully aware of the threat now and was reacting by breaking off his pursuit and maneuvering to shake off the missiles.

"You could have done that a little earlier, Two." Winter snapped, her tone laced with bitterness. "That last hit took out all my electronics . . . Looks like I'm out of this fight."

"Sorry about that, ma'am." Sheppard said quietly, feeling genuinely apologetic at having let his wing leader down. Everyone knew that Priscilla Winters was bred on and for combat. "I'll make it up to you somehow. But for now, you had best head back to the barn, ma'am."

"Damn, I hate to say this but you're right." Winters conceded most reluctantly. "Come on, Two. There's nothing more we can do here today. Let's head back home . . . provided it's still there."

"Negative on that, One." Sheppard countered immediately. "I'll cover your retreat."

"Don't you try to be a hero now, Two." Winters growled, the irritation evident in her tone. "Especially not right after you screwed up when you were supposed to be covering me."

"Understood, ma'am." Sheppard answered softly. "I have no intention of dying today."

"Don't stay out too long, that's an order." Winters said firmly. "I want you heading back as soon as I'm clear of the area."

"Roger, affirmative." Sheppard answer sounded somewhat distracted. His attention had returned to the _Pathfinder_ that was still trying to avoid his missiles. The Jovian pilot was good.

Even without a dedicated anti-missile system to shoot down the pair of Deathsong missiles, he was making the missiles work extremely hard to catch up with his weaving machine. "See you back aboard the _Zensen_, ma'am."

"Provided she's still there." Winters remarked dourly." Odin One out."

Sheppard turned his _Syreen's_ head to watch his wing leader's crippled exo depart. It was still largely intact but from what little he had known about space combat, particle cannon hits were deadly for both the external and internal damage that they did to their targets, which sometimes included frying the occupants of any vehicle unfortunate enough to be hit by them.

Further away, barely discernible against the field of stars, the _Zensen_ was a small, flame-belching fleck of metal glinting in the light of the distant sun. Somewhere out there were two more Jovian exos. Whether they were hanging around to finish off the _Zensen_ or were now racing back to help their comrades and support the _Wanderer_ was unknown.

And with the _Zensen_ off the air, there was no way of finding out.

Returning his attention to the task at hand, Sheppard was disappointed to note that both his missiles were no longer tracking. Instead, they were streaking aimlessly into space, their internal fuel expended. A pair of flashes followed a heartbeat later as the missiles self-destructed. Sheppard stared at the annoying Jovian who had somehow outmaneuvered his missiles.

The Jovian was heading towards him again, its rifle-like particle cannon held at the ready. He considered locking on and firing another pair of missiles, but Winters' final command had been engraved with crystal clarity in his mind.

He could outrun the Jovian now. There was enough separation at the moment for him to make good his escape. A quick check told him that Winters was well on her way out of the combat zone. She would be safe now, provided the _Zensen_ could still recover exos and the other pair of Jovian exos were out hunting for her.

So far, that Jovian pilot had been lucky, Sheppard reasoned. He couldn't possibly dodge another pair of missiles. The _Pathfinder_ had to be low on fuel, considering that his compatriot was now practically immobile and trying to coast away with maneuvering verniers alone.

_Besides_, Sheppard thought as he laid his targeting crosshairs over the incoming Jovian, even if the next pair of missiles didn't score a kill, it would buy him time to make good his own escape. For a tense moment, Sheppard wondered if he had spent a moment too long thinking through his options.

The _Pathfinder_ had closed the gap with a desperate burst of overthrust and was raising its particle cannon even as Sheppard's targeting system beeped urgently, his missiles trying to get a lock on the charging Jovian.

His heart was almost in his mouth when he finally heard the solid tone as his Deathsong missiles were locked on once more. His finger almost made it to the trigger before a tongue of bluish fire lashed out from the Jovian machine and stabbed into his _Syreen's_ chest. Sparks cascaded into his cockpit and azure electricity writhed across his instruments as the charged particles wrought havoc upon the _Syreen's_ internal systems.

His nerves were suddenly aflame with a horrific burning sensation and an involuntarily scream escaped his lips as the powerful discharge of uncontrolled electrical energy tore through everything inside the exo – including its pilot. The agony last no more than a second but there was hardly time for Alan to assess the damage to his machine or his body.

Amidst the choking smoke that was now filling his cockpit and the tears that were stinging at his eyes, he saw the _Pathfinder_ discarding its particle cannon. There was a moment of incomprehension as the Jovian machine seemed to reach towards its thigh, extracting a simple-looking tube with its freed manipulator hand. There was a flash of bluish fire and Sheppard's eyes widened as he realized his opponent was aiming to finish him off with a close-range plasma lance attack.

He tried to shift the weight of his protesting body to throw his machine out of the way. But either his body or his machine wasn't responding. With the horrific nerve damage he had already suffered from the electrical shock, he couldn't really tell.

The tiny sparkle in the _Pathfinder's_ hand had grown into a rod of pulsating plasma fire, much like a melee weapon of ancient Earth. It was for that reason that plasma lances earned their name. And like the modern equivalent of its predecessor, it was designed to rip open almost any material known to man.

In a move that jousting Medieval knights may have recognized, the _Pathfinder_ reached back slightly, then thrust the lit end of its plasma lance into the disabled _Syreen_. The scorching flame sliced through the CEGA exo's armor as if it never existed and for a brief moment, Alan Sheppard thought he felt the searing heat of plasma as a glaring light slashed into the cockpit.

For a surreal moment, he wondered if he was actually feeling the heat or simply imagining it because of the plasma was igniting the air around him. Then the familiar surroundings of his cockpit melted away into incandescence before giving way to an unhindered view of the deathly cold depth of space.

The uncontrolled tumbling into the void would have reminded Ensign Alan Sheppard of an ill-spent youth exo-racing back in his home amongst the L4 Orbitals if it weren't for the fact that he was already dead.


	28. 028 Relief And Replacement

**RELIEF AND REPLACEMENT**

_Tender consideration for worthless and incompetent officers is but another name for cruelty towards brave men who fall as sacrifices to these defects of their leaders. _

-Jefferson Davis-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**BRIDGE, CSS _ZENSEN_ NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT **

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

For a very tense couple of minutes after the vehicle bay explosion, the bridge had been shrouded in complete darkness. The lighted displays had either shorted out or blown out completely and even the red battle lamps, designed to keep on working under combat conditions had failed.

Men and women on the bridge had begun shouting and screaming all at once, some calling out that they were wounded while others tried to raise other parts of the ship on their headsets for status reports

When the dim, red battle lamps finally came on again, it was clear that the _Zensen's_ bridge had almost been cut off from the rest of the ship. Most of the displays were beginning to come back on one by one, but getting them to show anything more than gibberish was proving to be quite a challenge.

The cacophony of voices made it impossible to figure out what was going on. Captain Enfield was screaming incoherently about something. Kallie ignored him. The Computer Officer was slumped sideways in his seat and the Navigator was trying to free him from his seat restraints

Young Ensign Ivan Chuikov was speaking into his headset in hushed and urgent tones, but apparently without much success. There was a trickle of blood coming from a gash on his forehead. How he picked up that wound would have to be figured out later, provided there was a later for all of them to worry about. The Sensor Operator was trying desperately to get his console to work, but with several of his monitors shattered, it was unlikely he would have any success.

Seeing that there wasn't anything left to do except to help restore some order to the bridge, Kallie decided to start with the Captain. Rotating her seat to face the Captain, she was dismayed by what she saw.

Captain Roger Enfield was still babbling incomprehensibly. Straining hard to hear him, she realized that he was alternating between calling for an all-out strike against the Jovians and crying out that he had been wounded.

Eyeing him critically, Kallie felt her anger rise. He didn't seem to be wounded in any way, but he certainly had been thrown around a little in his seat and his arm looked somewhat tangled by the seat restraints. Listening a moment longer, she realized that Enfield was indeed crying out about his pinned arm.

Something within her snapped. Here she was, aboard a ship that was likely to be dying and her Captain with an arm tangled in by a seat restraint was screaming like a pig about to be stuffed.

Unable to restrain herself any longer, she unfastened her seat harness violently, pulling her pistol out of its holster as she did so. In the mayhem that was permeating the bridge no one seemed to notice that she was approaching the Captain with a drawn weapon. It was either that, or no one seemed to care even if they had noticed. They had other things to worry about apart from their presently useless commanding officer.

"Captain!" Kallie called out, standing in front of him to gain his undivided attention. "Captain, calm down! The crew needs orders, sir!"

Captain Enfield looked up at her but if Kallie was expecting him to look relieved at the fact that someone was finally paying attention to his cries for help, she was to be proven wrong. Enfield fixed her with a wild-eyed look, as if she had just asked him the stupidest question in the universe, and then screamed. "I'm wounded, damn it! I need medical attention now!"

"Sir! What are your orders?" Kallie pressed, ignoring her commander's tirade. "What do you want us to do?"

"Get me a medic, Chang!" Enfield went on screaming. "Oh God, my arm hurts!"

Kallie shook her head in exasperation. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. "Sir, are you turning command over to me in this case?"

"That's just what you'd want, isn't it, Chang?" Enfield sneered, appearing lucid for a moment. "Now you get me a medic and I'll be just fine!"

"But what about the crew? What about the ship?" Kallie could feel a wave of heat rising within her as her grip on the pistol tightened.

"Damn it, Chang, I said . . ." Enfield paused in mid-sentence when he found himself staring into the business end of a heavy, semi-automatic pistol. His mind might have been imagining and exaggerating the pain in his arm, but he was under no illusions as to what a single round from that weapon could do at point blank range. "_No_!"

Chang flicked the pistol to the left just as she squeezed the trigger, sending a heavy slug thudding into the cushioned headrest just inches away from Enfield's head. If no one had paid any attention to the _Zensen's_ First Officer before, they were all most certainly doing so now. A hush descended upon the chamber even as echoes of the single shot continued to ring in everyone's ears.

"Now listen very carefully, Captain Enfield." Chang said menacingly, the gun was leveled at the whimpering man's head once more. "I'm only going to say this once. Understood?"

Enfield nodded dumbly. If it weren't for the fact that he was wearing a spacesuit like everyone else, Kallie was sure she would have spotted a dark stain below his waist. "By the power of Fleet Regulation Twenty-one, I am hereby assuming command of the CSS _Zensen_ and all persons aboard her as the senior officer aboard in a time of crisis."

"_You can't do that_!" Enfield protested, temporarily forgetting about the pistol aimed at his head. "I am the senior officer present!"

"Present but incapacitated." Kallie told him coldly. "Nevertheless, by the power of Fleet Regulation Nineteen, I, Lieutenant Commander Kallie Chang, hereby relieve you, Captain Roger Enfield, of command on the grounds that you are no longer fit to command this vessel. You are to be confined to quarters until further notice."

"Damn you, Chang! I'm not relinquishing command to you!"

"I'm not asking you to, Enfield," she told him coldly, her pistol never wavering. "I am relieving you. Your consent is not necessary. Ensign Chuikov?"

"Ma'am?"

"Note the time in the log." Kallie told him. "As of now, I am assuming command of the _Zensen_."

"Aye aye, ma'am!" Chuikov said enthusiastically.

"This . . . this is mutiny!" Enfield sputtered.

"No. It is necessity. Now shut up, please." Kallie used her more penetrating glare to back up the pistol in her hands. "Or I may just shoot you yet."

The Captain's face went even whiter as he nodded woodenly.

"Do we still have internal communications?" Chang asked, returning her attention to Chuikov.

"Intermittent, but it's still there." The Communications Operator said, seemingly pleased that someone who knew what she was doing was finally taking charge. "External comms are still out."

"We won't need those for the moment." Kallie said, meeting Enfield's gaze coolly, daring him to do something stupid so she would have an excuse to shoot him. "Contact Lieutenant Hammond. Tell him I need a security detail to escort Captain Enfield to his quarters and ensure he stays there."

"Aye, Skipper." The communications officer grinned for a moment. "It might be difficult, considering his Marines are probably helping out with damage control."

"Tell him to spare whoever he can whenever he can." Kallie said before looking to the rest of the crew. "Ok, people. Let's get this ship turned around! We're getting out of here while we still can! Damage reports as soon as you can, please! And someone unseal those doors! If we can't rely on internal communications then we'll just have to use runners!"

"Skipper, we're getting preliminary reports from the port vehicle bay!" Chuikov called out from his station.

"Patch me through!" Kallie demanded. "The rest of you, check your departments and do whatever you can!" She spared a glance at Enfield who was sitting mutely in his chair, looking like a shadow of his former self, which was not much to begin with. Deciding he was not a threat, she returned to her seat, just in time to hear the deck commander's voice in her ear.

"Damage report?"

"Port vehicle bay is totally out of action. The bay doors have been ruptured and the bay has been completely depressurized though we have several fires burning out of control because of exploding munitions and oxygen tanks." The deck commander sounded tired. "We're having a hard time getting to those fires because most of the bay crews were taken out in the blast and I'm having trouble shifting people over from starboard. It's not going to happen soon if we want to go ahead with the launch."

"Belay that launch." Kallie told him, realizing that he had no way of finding out beforehand that she had assumed command of the _Zensen_. "We're disengaging now. Priority now goes to saving the ship. Use whoever you need to in order to get those fires under control."

Kallie could sense the deck commander's hesitation over the intercom. "Ma'am, you're sure the Captain will be ok with this?"

"The Captain's been relieved. I'm in command now." Chang told him simply.

"I see. In that case, I'll get my people working on those fires right away."

"Good, let me know if things start to get out of hand. Chang out." She turned her attention back to her bridge crew. "Helm! Are we ready to come about?"

"Affirmative, Skipper. The drive fins have taken some damage but we'll be able to handle it."

"Good. Stand by." Kallie nodded firmly. "Weapons!"

"Yes, Skipper?"

"Do we have a missile lock on that Jovian carrier?"

The Weapons Officer bit her lip and shrugged. "I don't know. We were still tracking her when Sensors went out though the range is somewhat iffy. I still have a pretty good idea where she is though. We could launch a salvo into the general area and hope the internal seekers can acquire her . . ."

"Good enough. Fire everything you've got!" Kallie instructed as she returned her attention to the Helmsman. "Helm, prepare to bring us about as soon as we've launched."

"Ma'am, you want to launch _everything_?" The Weapons Officer sounded incredulous. "I mean, there's no guarantee that we'll even hit _anything_ . . ."

"That's not important right now." Kallie snapped, her patience ebbing. "We're practically blind, our comms are intermittent and we're on fire. All we need to do is distract the Jovians long enough for us to make good our escape. How long before you can get your birds out there?"

"The tubes were undamaged by that lightning strike. I can program a possible intercept point based on the _Forge's_ last known location. That will take less than ten seconds."

"Get going." The acting CO of the _Zensen_ nodded. "Engineering, how are our drives holding out?"

"Considering that they've already survived the shit hurled at it so far, I'd say they'll hold together." The Chief Engineer reported. "We'll be able to supply full power as soon as we come about."

"Very well. Weapons . . ."

"Missile bay doors open!" One of the revived displays showed that the doors covering the _Zensen's_ twin, concealed missiles bays were now fully opened. "Missiles away!"

A series of vibrations ran through the ship's battered hull as thirty missiles streaked out of each bay, combining into a single massive salvo. Kallie Chang allowed herself a tiny smile. That would be enough to make any warship captain nervous. Now it was time to run while they still could.

"Helm, bring us about now! Engineering, stand by to go to maximum acceleration as soon as we've come about!" Kallie gripped her armrests as she felt the tension mount. If either the maneuvering verniers of the main drives failed, they would be sitting ducks. Or worse, they wouldn't be around to worry about it. "Comms, recall our exos if you can!"

There was a chorus of answers in the affirmative as the _Zensen_ lurched, its ancient hulll groaning in protest at the forces exerted by its maneuvering verniers. There was a grinding shriek emanating from the port side and she found herself praying that the ship would hold together in spite of the horrific wounds rent in her side. She wasn't the only one praying. Even Enfield's lips were moving silently, his features pallid.

"Missiles are still running straight and true. Twenty seconds to internal seeker acquisition phase."

Kallie wasn't paying attention to that right now. All she cared about was getting the ship to face its stern towards the _Forge_ so that she could fire up the main drives to maximum burn and get clear while they still could. She absently wondered if the _Forge_ was trying to evade the missile barrage, but without working sensors, that was one luxury she would have to do without.

"Maneuver completed!" The Helmsman announced exultantly.

"Engineering! All ahead full!" Chang cried out. "Let's get out of here!"


	29. 29 Parting Shots

**PARTING SHOTS**

_Part of the happiness of life consists not in fighting battles, but in avoiding them. A masterly retreat is in itself a victory. _

-Norman Vincent Peale-

**21 JANUARY 2213**

**BRIDGE, JSS _FORGE_, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT **

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

"Captain! I'm picking up a massive missile launch from the _Tengu_!" The Sensor Operator cried out in alarm.

"How many?" Captain Polwalski asked, her voice still and betraying no emotion at all.

"Fifty plus, maybe sixty missiles, Skipper!" Sensors replied, staring at his displays in disbelief.

"That many?" Even the normally impassive Polwalski gasped at that report.

From her station next to Sensors, Amanda had a pretty good view of the swarm of blips that had suddenly been detected. All throughout the engagement, she had listened excitedly to the action as it unfolded.

She had clung on to every transmission from Watchdog Flight as they battled it out with the pair of CEGA exos armors. She had sweated along with Officer Winnie Kok as when she had finally reported that she had run out of fuel. She had rejoiced along with Officer Adelene Chan when the flight leader called in to report her 'kill'.

Amanda had also cheered with the rest of the bridge crew when Captain Dicher reported the crippling damage dealt to the _Tengu_ and how it was burning ever so brightly from internal explosions that threatened to consume her.

But despite the damage inflicted on the CEGA escort carrier, it was still more than capable of striking back. If she remembered her ship briefings, sixty missiles probably represent half or an otherwise good portion of a _Tengu's_ missile inventory. And these were more powerful versions of the weapons normally mounted on strike fighters and exos. Each was more than capable of inflicting worrying damage against the _Forge_.

"What's their target?" Polwalski inquired, her voice taut with tension. As far as she knew, unless the CEGA commander had serious megalomaniacal tendencies, there were only two likely targets for that swarm of missiles - one that could barely handle it and one that couldn't.

"It's . . . It's hard to say, Captain. We've not been locked on to, but that may just mean that the missiles are coasting in on a pre-planned vector before they switch to active homing. Could be us, could be the _Wanderer_." The Sensors Operator shrugged.

"Sensors, I _need_ to know now." Captain Polwalski enunciated each word emphatically. "Is the _Tengu_ firing at us . . . or the _Wanderer_?"

The Sensor Operator hesitated and Amanda could identify with her counterpart's uneasiness. The Captain had a way of doing that to her subordinates. "It's really hard to say now, given the geometry and . . ."

"At us _or_ the _Wanderer_?"

"Captain, I really don't . . ."

"Guess, damn it!" Polwalski bellowed and the Sensor Operator cringed.

"Us, Captain!" came the tremulous reply. "I think missiles are heading for _us_!"

"Alright. Comms, order Bandog Flight to close with the _Wanderer_ and protect her from further attack."

"Captain, the _Tengu_ and her remaining exo are withdrawing!" Sensors reported. Amanda shot a glance at the main tactical display sprawled above her head. Indeed, the CEGA escort carrier was calling it quits and beginning to accelerate away from the battle zone. Its single remaining exo, having disengaged shortly before its compatriot was destroyed, was well on its way back to its mothership. Polwalski could sense the unspoken query in the Sensors Operator's tone. _Shouldn't we finish her off_?

"It doesn't matter. I need Bandog covering the _Wanderer_ now that Watchdog is out of fuel." Polwalski snapped, indicating that the matter wasn't open for discussion. "Comms, quit gawking at the display and recall Watchdog now."

Amanda shook herself and returned her attention to her station. "Aye aye, Skipper!" She keyed the transmit key for her headset and made sure she was on the right frequency before speaking. "Watchdog, Watchdog, this is Kennel. Do you copy?"

"Captain! The missiles are going active! Their seekers are going active!" Everyone's eyes flashed to the Sensor Operator at that frantic report.

Captain Lynnette Polwalski stared irritably at the man sitting at the Sensors station, silently cursing him for his apparent lack of initiative. "_And_? What's their target, Sensors? Report!"

"Us, Captain!" The Sensors Operator's voice rose by several octaves. "The missiles are coming towards _us_!"

"Understood." Polwalski replied tersely and nodded. "Helm, come to new heading, zero-niner-one, down zero-three-zero! Engineering, burn retros now! Prepare to go to maximum burn as soon as we complete our turn! Weapons, standby point defense! Engage as soon as possible!"

Her stream of orders triggered a barrage of choruses from the respective bridge crew. Amanda looked around as her companions reacted with the same degree of excitement that she was feeling. _Someone is shooting at us_!

It wasn't the first time she had come under fire in her relatively short career. But the Belt pirates she encountered on her previous deployment possessed neither the proficiency nor the firepower to threaten her well-being in the same manner as the CEGA Navy. She felt her pulse quickening. Sixty missiles, each with a deadly cargo of explosives, all addressed to the JSS _Forge_.

"Kennel?" A distant-sounding voice was saying in her ear, shaking her out of her reverie. "Kennel, come in, please. Kennel, what's going on?"

Amanda forced herself to filter out all the other tense chatter on the _Forge's_ bridge and focus on the voice in her ear. She recognized the husky tones as Warrant Officer Chan's. There was an edge of breathless concern in the woman's voice as she spoke once more. "Kennel, are you receiving me?"

"Affirmative, Watchdog One." Amanda replied, pushing out all the distractions that surrounded her. The ship was beginning to shudder as the retro-rockets ignited, rapidly killing the _Forge's_ forward momentum. Maneuvering verniers along the length of the Jovian patrol carrier were firing as well, impelling the warship onto its new course. "Return to base, Watchdog."

"Easier said than done, Kennel." Officer Chan remarked wryly. "What about the _Wanderer_?"

"Bandog's got it. Your orders are to return to the _Forge_ immediately."

"I hope by 'immediately' you mean 'as fast as we can'. We're coasting in on fumes here." Adelene answered mirthlessly. "Getting anywhere in a hurry is going to be a challenge at this point in time."

"Copy that." Amanda said, trying to exude an air of calm.

During her communications specialist's training, her instructors had made the trainees listen to recordings of communications operators working under stress. She had listened to how a panicked operator could become so unglued under the pressure that he or she would babble incoherently over the comms net, adding chaos into an already deteriorating situation.

She had also listened to how a single communications operator, fully aware of one's surroundings and fully in control of one's emotions, could bring order to the chaos and even play a decisive part in defusing a crisis. Amanda had resolved to be the latter a long time ago.

"Maneuver completed!" The Helmsman declared loudly above the hushed murmurings on the bridge.

"Engineering! Give me maximum acceleration!" Polwalski barked, slapping the armrest and leaning forward in her command chair. "Get us out of here _now_!"

"Already on it, Skipper!"

"Do your best, Watchdog." Amanda tried to say with confidence she didn't quite feel. "We'll try to arrange a rendezvous with you as soon as we've dealt with the immediate threat."

"Weapons!" Captain Polwalski hollered, directing her gaze from the Engineering to the Weapons station. "What's the status for point defense?"

"Is everything alright, Kennel?" Adelene buzzed in Amanda's ear, anxiety creeping into the exo pilot's voice.

"Point defense ready and tracking!" The Weapons Officer announced tensely. "Engagement will commence in eight seconds! Seven . . . six . . ."

"I'll have to get back to you on that, Watchdog." Amanda said tentatively, her attention and focus being inevitably drawn away towards matters that concerned her personal well-being more.

She could feel the ship's powerful plasma combustion chamber drives spooling up to maximum burn now. Even the buffering created by the placement of the ship's Ops Section in between the Drive Section and Main Hull was not enough to smother out the roar from the engines that was reverberating down the length of the vessel. "Stand by, Watchdog . . ."

"Five . . . four . . . three . . ." The litany went on, strangely devoid of emotion now.

"Kennel?" Adelene asked, apparently unsatisfied at being placed on hold.

"Uh, wait one, Watchdog." Amanda said impatiently. Normally, she would have rebuked herself for taking up such a tone towards an officer and promised herself that she would do better next time. Except whether there would be a next time now depended on how things unfolded in the next few seconds.

"Two . . . one . . . Point defense engaging!"

Normally tasked with zapping micrometeors before they could damage the ship through a high-velocity collision, the _Forge's_ point defense system, like that of many other warships, was also a last-ditch defense system used for shooting down incoming missiles.

Though Polwalski was now presenting the larger target area of her ship's broadside to the incoming missiles, she was also maximizing the number of PDS emitter panels that could now be brought to bear against the swarm of deadly projectiles.

The space around the _Forge_ was now enmeshed with a latticework of deadly light energy as PDS emitters went to work. The ship was beginning to accelerate and Amanda felt herself being pressed back into her seat as the carrier began to pick up speed. On the main display, she could see the undiminished cloud of missiles curving after the fleeing _Forge_.

At first, Amanda felt her heart sink with despair. The PDS lasers, in spite of their astonishing rate of fire, seemed to be having no effect on the number of missiles streaking in after them. Then, before she could verbalize her despair, the lighted symbols representing the CEGA missiles began to wink out with alarming rapidity.

The external cameras were already picking up explosions as close as twenty kilometers out and several more missiles were self-destructing as high-energy needles pierced their fragile frames and detonated their payloads.

"Point Defense is reporting good hits." The Weapons Officer reported, leaning anxiously over his console. "But there are still too many missiles left, Captain!"

"Keep firing! Helm, new course . . ."

"Sixteen missiles coming through!"

Amanda's heart was seized in her throat at that report. That was sixteen missiles too many penetrating the shield of energy surrounding the carrier. The blips representing the missiles were almost merging with that of the _Forge_.

"Helm, hard to starboard now!" Polwalski snapped, then keyed her manual override for the ship's public address system, seizing control from Amanda who was too absorbed in the present crisis to do anything else. The Captain wasted no time identifying herself as she spoke, "All hands, all hands, brace for impact!"

The last thing Amanda saw before the blips converged was that of five more vanishing at the very last moment, shot down through a heroic effort on the part of the point defense system. She heard a scraping sound along the length of the hull as the ship lurched again, the Helmsman trying to put the _Forge_ on yet another course as quickly as he could. She realized that one of the missiles must have struck at an awkward angle as the carrier turned and it had careened harmlessly along the hull before tumbling back into space.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the remaining ten missiles which impacted across the length of the JSS _Forge_.

Though it felt as if her world had suddenly exploded, the truth was far more prosaic as Amanda would later discover. Of the ten missiles which scored hits, two being almost as old as the enemy carrier itself and maintained with far less care, failed to arm properly and turned out to be duds that would prove thankfully easy to disarm after the battle. Three more missiles impacted harmlessly against the ship's densely armored main hull and Ops Section, their detonations achieving little more than scoring and pitting the armor.

Four of the missiles that scored hits against the armored prow of the Forge did only superficial damage to the Runway Two and Three but otherwise failed to penetrate the thick hull plating. It was the remaining missile that had done the most serious damage. While trying to home in on the massive heat signature of the _Forge's_ main drive, it had collided with the structural ring that held the ship's habitat modules. Had the ring been rotating at the time, impact would surely have caused the entire ring to disintegrate in midflight - a disaster that might have torn the ship in two.

Though the damage was enough to remind all aboard of the merits of de-spinning the habitat ring before combat, it was certainly not substantial enough to put the _Forge_ out of action. Certainly, it wasn't the explosive Armageddon that Amanda had been expecting when she heard the first explosions going off. The impacts had barely been enough to shake her against her seat restraints.

As damage reports began to filter in, she reminded herself that Watchdog One was still holding anxiously on the frequency. "Watchdog One, this is Kennel. We've been hit but we're still here. We should be able to conduct recovery operations by the time you arrive. Please continue your approach."

"What about that _Tengu_?" Adelene sounded somewhat disappointed. "We're going to let it get away after what it's done?"

"Uh . . ." Amanda wasn't too sure how to answer that question. The missile bombardment had left her completely breathless and she was still trying to recover from the shock of having been attacked by the CEGA Navy. Sure, she was exhilarated to still be alive but the thought of taking revenge on the _Tengu_ hadn't crossed her mind yet. "Wait one . . ."

She turned to the Captain, unsure as to whether she should relay the exo pilot's question. Lynette Polwalski had other things on her mind. And it wasn't the damage to her ship. Amanda realized that the Sensors Operator next to her was still speaking.

"Confirmed, Captain. The _Tengu_ and her remaining exo are still fleeing."

"Towards the new contact?" The Captain shot an inquiring look, seeking confirmation from the Sensors Operator who nodded in the affirmative.

_New contact_? Amanda frowned. What had she missed in that very short time she spent talking to Watchdog Flight?

"Do we have a positive ID on her?" There was a note of anxiety creeping into the Captain's tone.

"Well, she's certainly making no effort to mask her identity, Skipper." Sensors reported wryly. "She's definitely CEGA Navy. _Hachiman_-class. I've got a match in the registry for the CSS _Yawata_, Captain Mifune commanding . . . if our intelligence is up to date."

Corporal Amanda Loh swallowed involuntarily. They may have just succeeded in seeing off an enemy carrier and its exo armor flight. But now there was a destroyer headed their way. There wouldn't be enough time to scramble another pair of exos if the _Hachiman_ decided to close and press the matter. And she was certainly under no illusions as to how well the _Forge_ would fare standing toe-to-toe with a gun-heavy destroyer.

"I see." Captain Polwalski nodded slowly. "Is the _Hachiman_ making a move towards us or the _Wanderer_?"

"Negative, Captain." The reply sounded relieved. "In fact, she's decelerating. It appears she intends to rendezvous with the _Tengu_ and not proceed any further."

The Commanding Officer of the JSS _Forge_ added her own sigh of relief to the others on the bridge before sagging back into her chair. "I guess they've had enough for one day. And we ought to learn how to take 'yes' for an answer."

"Captain?"

"Comms, direct Bandog to continue escorting the _Solar Wanderer_ out of the area. And tell Watchdog we'll be getting another pair of exos out to haul them back in as soon as we can launch them."

"Captain . . ." Amanda blurted out in mild surprise. "Aren't we going to link up with the _Wanderer_ or Watchdog?"

"No, Corporal. We're withdrawing. There's been enough done today." Polwalski exhaled tiredly one last time before fixing the Communications Operator with a stern look. "Carry on, Comms."

"Aye aye, Skipper."


	30. 30 Career Decisions

**CAREER DECISIONS**

_The combination of professionalism and technology may also result in narrow-minded specialization more suited to a debating society than to an organization whose task it is to cope with, and indeed live in, the dangerous and uncertain environment of war._

Martin van Crevald

**26 JANUARY 2213**

**KHANNAN BASE, OLYMPUS, **

**JOVIAN CONFEDERATION**

Breanna felt like screaming in frustration. She had expected life in JAF, particularly her basic training phase, to be tough and challenging. She had gone in with the expectation that she would be subject to mind-numbing tongue lashings from her instructors, back-breaking physical challenges and a heart-stopping training program designed to help her to realize the warrior within and expunge any trace of fear and doubt about in her soul.

So far, her training had been almost all of that and she had the increased mental and physical fitness to show for it. In short, basic training had been tough but generally fruitful.

She was being charitable when she used the words 'generally fruitful' to describe her two months of training so far. Despite centuries of evolution, the military still hadn't gotten rid of the bane of most men and women from the rank of general downwards. They were known as 'chickenshit' details though most armies had various other terms used to describe any kind of mindless and ridiculous work that comes from on high.

She and the rest of the platoon had been overjoyed to hear that there was going to be a break in the training schedule. After a full week of practicing space emergency procedures, ship firefighting techniques as well as room-clearing and squad movements, they were all ready to take a break and give their aching bodies a rest, even if it was for just a day. She was sure few of her buddies had actually paid attention to Lieutenant Vygotsky when he announced that the break in the training schedule was due to something known as Platoon Admin Day.

They had all learnt the hard way that the day was set aside for platoon administration. And by that, it did not mean having tired recruits administering to their bruised and battered bodies. Instead, reveille had come at the usual hour and Pulver, in his distinctive style, had explained the day's events to them.

Yes, they were being given a break from the usual training, but the time was not to be spent idling. There were records that needed to be updated, interviews that needed to be conducted by the Platoon Commander, uniforms and equipment to mend and clean and buildings that needed to be maintained.

It seemed as if Sergeant Pulver had taken special care in picking the assignments for Third Squad. Reuben the farmboy had been given the task of replanting some small trees for an ongoing landscaping project outside the Khannan Base Training HQ Building. Pulver had reasoned that as a farmer's son, Reuben was sure to have 'green hands'. Pulver had sent Joshua along, probably just for the pure amusement of seeing the exo pilot be brought down to 'earth'.

Pulver had then sent the pint-sized Daniel on an Odyssey that would take him all around the HQ Building, tasking him with checking every bulb along the building's corridors and recording how many of them would need replacement. But for John and her, the now infamous rivals in Third Squad, Pulver had devised a most devious assignment to slow them down. And it was about as exciting as watching paint dry.

In fact, she _was_ watching paint dry.

John was next to her, staring at the paintbrush in his hand. The pair of them had been assigned to paint the Training Armory. Being used to house all the training ammunition for the various basic training companies based at Khannan, it was a moderately-sized building. Of course, the former shipyard worker and IGS intern in her had done a fair bit of painting in the time she spent around spaceships. In fact, she had fondly recalled how she had once been drafted to help add the finishing touches to the paintwork of the then-new Trojan Passenger Lines' Arcadia, an _Empress_-class liner that was certainly many times the size of the building she had been tasked with painting.

What she hadn't counted on was Pulver issuing them with paintbrushes instead of the paintguns and sprays that she had been more familiar with at her previous job. When she had protested, Pulver had treated her to a lecture on how the human being was still the most powerful and complex weapon system ever created and how all technology was subservient to man. He had then gone on to talk about how he believed that humanity could continue to survive with just the basics, provided it had the will to do so.

John, who had been raised in relative comfort had been even more lost. Breanna guessed he had never held a paintbrush all his life, save for the time he probably spent in whatever posh, private school he must have attended as a child. So it had taken a good half hour to get him painting in the right direction before they finally got truly started. With half the day already gone, they had made relatively slow progress with only one wall completed.

"You know," John began, staring at the wall they had just painted. "That was almost more tiring than our damage control training."

"Oh, yeah?" Breanna shot back. "I didn't see you struggling too much with your damage control gear."

"Well, it wasn't all that heavy." John admitted.

"Not for you, it wasn't." Breanna remarked unhappily. "Heck, I could barely move with everything on."

"Brute strength." John grinned, tapping one of his now bulging biceps. "Comes in useful sometimes."

"Yeah," Breanna shrugged as she sat down to stare at the wall. "I guess there are things that do call for brute strength."

"Why, is that an admission of my usefulness then?" John brightened up, his grin widening. "So I'm not just a clumsy oaf anymore?"

"Well, let's just say you're a marginally useful oaf." Breanna replied tartly before indicating to the wall with her chin. "Now this is something that needs a lot more technique and a lot less strength."

"Fine . . ." John sat himself down heavily and kicked out his feet to stretch his legs. "Let's see how you like doing this all by your . . ."

"Uh oh, here comes the Sarge!" Breanna hissed as she struggled back up onto her feet.

John turned and saw their Sergeant stalking towards them, looking clearly unhappy about something. He had barely scrambled to his feet by the time the Sergeant reached them.

"Chan!" That single syllable left Pulver's mouth explosively and Breanna found herself cringing involuntarily.

"S-Sergeant?" Breanna stammered as she turned to face him and snapped to attention.

"Why the hell are you goofing off here?" Pulver came to a halt just inches from her face.

"We . . .uh, we're waiting for the paint to dry, Sergeant!" Breanna replied, forcing herself to find the courage to look the Sergeant in the eye. Then against her better judgment, she added, "We were just taking a short break, Sergeant."

To her surprise, Pulver didn't really bite her head off for that comment. Instead, he said, "I know that, Recruit Chan! But you're not supposed to be here now, are you?"

"Sergeant?" Breanna stared at her instructor, her facing scrunching up with incomprehension. "But I thought you ordered . . ."

"Yes, I did." Pulver rolled his eyes uncharacteristically and exhaled noisily. "Don't you have something else to do in five minutes time?"

"I . . ." Breanna frowned as she tried to remember. And then it stuck her. "Oh!"

"Oh? Is that all you can say, Chan?" Pulver glowered at her. "You now have less than five minutes to get your ass over to the Platoon Office!"

"But what about the Armory?" She looked back at the drying paint on the Armory wall, then to John and back to the Sergeant. "Who's going to . . ."

"That's not your department of concern, Chan! Now get going!"

Breanna spared John another look and saw him urging her to go just so that the shouting might possibly stop. Needing no further encouragement than that, she let out a hearty, 'Yes, Sergeant!' and sprinted off towards the Platoon Office.

For a JAF recruit, there were only two ways to move around Khannan Base (or at least the parts of which they were confined to as 'pukes') and walking wasn't one of them. Recruits either marched - which struck Breanna as rather stupid when one was traveling alone - or ran – which was more tiring but more sensible since it minimized one's exposure to prowling instructors eager to catch anyone of them for some minor infraction or another.

Running flat out across the base, she made it to the Platoon Office with just seconds before her interview with Lieutenant Vygotsky was due to begin.

Each recruit was required to go through at least three such interviews before completing Basic. As the platoon commander, Vygotsky's task was more than just training them up or ordering them around. In fact, much of that was in the hands of Pulver and the other instructors. As an all-volunteer force, the JAF tried its best to find a compromise between looking into the career preferences of each trainee as well as helping each trainee realized his or her own potential. As with all other volunteer militaries in the past, the guiding principle that was 'The needs of the organization come first' still held true.

Vygotsky's job was to track each trainee's progress, compare their performances and aptitudes revealed during their training, and recommend or encourage the men and women under his command to either keep up the good work or reconsider their chosen paths.

Breanna had already gone through two such interviews and so far, Vygotsky had refrained from asking anyone of them about their career preferences. The first interview, conducted after her first week in training had simply been to determine how well she was settling in to the regimental mode of military life. The second interview, after her first full month in training had been pretty much of the same, with a few comments about what she was doing well in and what she could improve on.

She didn't have much time to speculate what this third and possibly final interview was going to be about. The door to Vygotsky's office opened on the dot and he emerged, his eyes coming to rest on her at once. "Ah, Chan. Good, you made it. Come on in, please."

"Yes, sir." Breanna was still trying to catch her breath as she followed the Lieutenant into his office and shut the door behind him. When she finally turned back to face him, the Lieutenant was already reclining in his chair behind his desk.

"Sit down, Chan." He gestured to the vacant seat in front of his desk.

Breanna sat down as silently as she could. It was so silent in the office that one would have heard the proverbial pin dropping. The platoon commander glanced at his computer terminal before returning his gaze to her. "How's training so far, Chan?"

"It's ok, sir." She replied neutrally. "Bearable."

Vygotsky grinned at that. "Thought so. Well, Breanna . . . can I call you that?"

Breanna nodded wordlessly.

"It says here," Vygotsky flicked his chin towards his computer. "That upon enlistment, you indicated that your preferred MOS was EVA Specialist."

Again Breanna nodded. An MOS or Military Occupation Specialty referred to the different fields of specialty within the military. Each MOS, or 'job' had its own alphanumeric code, ranging from the humble 0122A Steward, to the 0399C Heavy Exo Armor Pilot, to the 0411D Extra Vehicular Activity Specialist that she had applied to become.

Each MOS had its own training program as well as path of career progression and it normally helped to get what one wanted early since mid-career transfers often meant missing out on backpay or promotion prospects.

"Why?"

The Lieutenant's one-word response struck Breanna like a blow and she found herself unable to formulate a more eloquent response than, "What do you mean, sir?"

"It's no secret that you are amongst the few recruits seriously in the running for Company Best Recruit." Vygotsky elaborated. "That means you're either very good . . . or very lucky. I'm inclined to believe that it's the former."

"I see . . ." Breanna said thoughtfully. She wasn't sure what the Lieutenant was looking for, nor did she really know how best to answer him. So she opted to just tell him the truth. "I had some EVA experience while on an internship with the Inter-settlement Geographical Service, sir. And after that, I spent some time working at a shipyard. I guess it's something I'm familiar with, sir."

"Something you're familiar with?" Vygotsky sounded amused. "And I guess by extension that means it's something you're good at?"

"I would say it's something I'm competent in, sir."

"Competent." Vygotsky repeated somewhat skeptically. "Right. So you picked an MOS where you believed your previous experience would be of help because it's something you're already familiar with?"

"I guess you can say that, sir." Breanna admitted sheepishly, realizing that her platoon commander wasn't entirely impressed with her answer.

"Breanna, has it occurred to you that a great deal of what you've been doing over the past two months has been unfamiliar to you and that you've been excelling in many of these things?" Vygotsky shot her a look that told her he was expecting a response for her.

She nodded dumbly, unsure as to what else she could say.

"And even though a medical report doesn't always determine your MOS, you are clearly more than qualified to become an EVA Specialist."

"That's another reason why I applied for the job, sir." Breanna answered truthfully.

"Because it was achievable?" Vygotsky asked and he waited till he saw Breanna nod before continuing. "A 'safe' career choice, I'll bet. No way of flunking out of it with your aptitudes. Sometimes, choosing the safest course of action isn't always the best way to realize your potential. I'm sure you've experienced that in the course of your training."

"Yes . . ." Breanna said slowly, struggling to discern where the conversation was head. "What are you saying, sir?"

"I believe you are a rare case of a trainee who is overqualified for your preferred MOS." Vygotsky told her. "I take it that you're not averse to the notion of a combat assignment?"

"If I were, sir, the JAF would certainly not be a career choice." Breanna lied. Even after two months of training and indoctrination, the idea of killing still did not appeal to her. She certainly had no qualms about defending her nation but the threat of the CEGA seemed somewhat distant at the moment. "I guess it would be a waste to join the military and not request a combat post."

"Good." The Lieutenant nodded simply. "Looking back at your two months of training here, would you consider a combat assignment that is a bit more . . . how shall I say . . . front line?"

"Such as . . .?"

Vygotsky made a show of consulting his computer once more before looking her in the eye. Breanna flinched at the intensity of the man's eyes. "I'd say you have a pretty good chance at making it to 0399A."

"0399A . . ." Breanna paused for awhile as she struggled to recall what that code stood for. Her eyes widened as it came to her. "Exo Armor Pilot, sir?"

"That's right, Breanna." The Lieutenant smiled as he nodded. "Normally, when I tell trainees to reconsider their ambitions, it's because they simply aren't up to the mark. But like I said, you're a rare case, Breanna."

"Sir, does this mean my application to become an EVA Specialist is going to be rejected?" Breanna asked worriedly. Her mind was whirling now. She had never asked to become one of the JAF's elite exo armor pilots. It never occurred to her that she might even qualify.

"Don't worry, Breanna. I have no right to do that." Vygotsky said reassuringly. "And neither does the JAF since you do qualify for the MOS to begin with and the JAF only wants willing applicants for its most glamorous jobs."

"I see." Breanna heaved a small sigh of relief. "So I can still become an EVA Specialist then?"

"Yes, you sure can." The Lieutenant nodded gravely. "But consider everything you've learnt in the past two months. Sometimes we limit ourselves from attaining our fullest potential because we want to do the safe thing or because we're afraid of rejection and failure. But something tells me you're far more capable than you're willing to admit, Breanna. Consider this very carefully. You can choose to be an EVA Specialist and do well, no doubt. But ask yourself if that's what you really want."

"Okay, sir." Breanna nodded slowly. "I will think about that."

"You have one more month of training to go. A lot can happen then." Vygotsky said, his tone becoming warm again. "Just think about everything I've said and let me know before the end of Basic. It's still not too late to change your mind."

"I-I understand, sir." Breanna's world was spinning. It was all too much for her. She had never expected this. She had never dreamed that she might get a chance at following her sister's footsteps, never thought that she could be more than just another cog in the Confederation's mighty military machine.

"Good. That concludes this interview then." Vygotsky said as he rose.

Breanna struggled to rise as well and she brought her hand up in a sharp salute. "Thank you, sir!"

"Thank you, Chan." Vygotsky smiled and watched her head for the door. He waited till she was almost out the doorway before he called out after her. "Follow your heart, Chan. Follow your heart."

"I will, sir." Breanna replied, glancing back. _He already knows_ . . . she thought to herself. _He knows what I've already decided even though I myself am still not sure_ . . . "And thank you once again, sir."

And with that, she shut the door and headed out of the Platoon Office. The journey back to the Armory took longer since she opted to march back, using the extra time to think about what Vygotsky had said to her.

And when John asked her how the interview had gone, she took special care to omit saying anything about exo armors.


	31. 31 State of the Nations

**STATE OF THE NATIONS**

_A political problem thought of in military terms eventually becomes a military problem. _

-General George C. Marshall-

**31 JANUARY 2213**

**SQUADRON READY ROOM, CSS COURAGEOUS, GOLIATH STATION**

**EARTH ORBIT, CEGA SPACE**

Ensign Lydia Goh suppressed a yawn as she stepped into the squadron ready room, tossing her flight helmet into an empty seat before collapsing into the adjacent chair. The rest of the pilots in her flight were repeating similar actions elsewhere in the ready room, grateful for the opportunity to take a break from the day's activities.

True to his reputation, Lieutenant Commander Armistead was every bit the slave-driver when it came down to pilot training. They had been flying close to fifty hours a week ever since they arrived aboard the _Courageous_. While that was still not as much as a pilot aboard a _Tengu_-class escort carrier flying continuous patrols under Readiness 5, it certainly was not the kind of schedule one would expect aboard a larger carrier with a relative abundance of pilots and machines.

The training had been hard on both pilots and machines. Armistead's training exercises had them out for as much as ten hours a day. And in between the many training flights, the techs would have to squeeze in the hundred and seventy man-hours weekly to keep her CEA-05 _Wyvern_ exo armor from falling apart.

Indeed, her machine had consumed more maintenance man-hours than what was specified in the tech manuals due to sheer heavy usage. In little over a month of continuous flying, she had managed to burn out one pair of leg thruster arrays and one fusion core backpack. Several of the limb actuators on her machine had also been replaced as a result of the hectic training cycle.

Though a simple extrapolation of the flight hours would reveal that she was flying a little less than seven hours each day, the rest of the time had not been spent idling. There were countless mission debriefs to attend. And then there was the time spent in the hangars supervising the techs as they fought the forces of wear and tear from claiming her _Wyvern_.

With all that done, she ought to manage some six or seven hours of sleep each day - if it weren't for the fact that as a junior officer, there was an abundance of paperwork and other minor assignments to see to. And to top it off, Armistead had scheduled flights at all times of the day so that getting more than four hours of continuous sleep was considered a true luxury.

The pilots selected to join the _Courageous_ exo squadron had all proven themselves to be first-rate with no serious accidents occurring despite the murderous schedule. But as talented as they all were, they still were not superhuman. Most were looking bleary-eyed and shuffling around like zombies. Several had given up their personal quarters and taken to sleeping in the ready room. A few had even foregone showering and changing out of their flight suits altogether.

Some of the more senior pilots, like Lieutenant Roland Perconte, had voiced their objections to the squadron commander about the hours they were putting into flying. Even the pilots who had lived to fly were beginning to feel the strain. For Lydia who had once complained that she never got to fly enough, the excitement of strapping into her exo was beginning to wane with each passing day.

But Commander Armistead had remained adamant about his techniques and he had silenced his critics with a nugget of logic that no one could quite dispute - 'You train like you fight because you'll eventually fight like you've trained'.

And so that had settled it for most of the squadron. While they still grumbled from time to time, most of them simply grit their teeth and carried on, many too tired to waste precious sleeping time moaning and groaning about the state of affairs. Lydia was back in the ready room for the third time that day, having finished a short but draining convoy attack scenario with the rest of her flight.

Lieutenant Perconte, her flight leader, had collapsed into his seat just seconds before her and was already sleeping soundly. Lydia found it difficult to simply shut down and fall asleep. Maybe it was because she didn't have much responsibility on training flights as a junior officer. She simply followed her flight leader, trying her best to stay 'alive' while completing her given mission.

She sat in silence at the rear of the ready room, amongst her widely dispersed comrades who were mostly dozing or lost in their own thoughts. One of the monitors at the back of the room was on and she realized it was the Lead News broadcast, the daily two-hour summary of major events and breaking news in the Solar System.

Joint Services Command had always been diligent in reminding all CEGA military personnel not to take ZONET reports as the gospel truth but rather to rely on the armed forces networks for the most accurate updates. Of course, the cynical side of her was sure Political Command would have banned ZONET completely if it were for the fact that it was based on Kolis Staion in the L4 Orbitals which was technically an ally or even part of the CEGA (depending on who you asked) and that the politicians needed to be tuned in to reality once in awhile.

Normally not one to tune in to the news, she decided it would be nice to have some noise in the background while she worked so she shifted herself closer to the screen where a pair of pilots were glancing absently at the images while trying to doze. Pulling her personal data pad out of her thigh pocket, she flicked on the power and retrieved the stylus.

She had finished her assigned paperwork before the last flight and she had become proficient in pretending to still be doing the work that she had already finished to a point where her workload was being tangibly reduced.

While flying her simulated attack runs on freighters around Goliath Station, she had realized how long it had been since she had written to her friends in the Confederation. Being busy as she was, it had been difficult to set aside the time to remember them, much less write to them.

So now, physically exhausted but unable to sleep, she decided to make use of the time to write some electronic mails. She was just about to start on the first one when the voice of the ZONET news reader somehow penetrated the fog in her mind.

"Officials from both the Confederation and the CEGA have confirmed that a shooting incident has indeed occurred between their naval forces ten days ago near the Asteroid Belt. Though both sides have declined to identify the ships involved, a source within Joint Services High Command revealed that only a single ship from either side was involved, both being patrolling carriers of the opposing fleets."

Lydia looked up at the screen and notice that her two companions had done the same, one of them rubbing the drowsiness out of his eyes as he struggled to pay attention to the bulletin. The image on screen had shifted into halves. There was an image of a _Tengu_-class escort carrier in one half and a _Forge_-class patrol carrier in the other. If they were truly representative of the ships that had been involved in the incident, then she had a pretty good idea which side had come out on top.

"According to a JAF spokesperson, the CEGA vessel was pursuing an unarmed merchant vessel in what was described as a, quote, 'blatant abuse of naval power by the CEGA to perpetrate piracy along heavily-traveled space lanes', unquote. The JAF statement revealed that its vessel had been responding to a distress call from the merchant vessel when it came into contact with the CEGA warship. Despite repeated attempts to convince the Earth vessel to cease and desist, the CEGA vessel allegedly fired first."

Lydia knew that both sides would have their own version of what occurred. And since each side wasn't particularly keen on revealing the full extent of what happened, it would be hard for the average viewer to discern the truth about who really fired first.

Lydia hadn't been in the CEGA Navy long enough to make any judgments herself. The CEGA, particularly the Earthers, had a way of regarding all other peoples, including the Selenites from the Moon and Orbitals like herself as second class human beings. The Earthers were particularly bitter at how the colonies had established themselves and prospered while Earth had floundered and suffered during the Fall.

They weren't likely to back down from a fight just because some Jovians told them too. The Jovians were particularly arrogant themselves, having grown rich from their gas mining operations around Jupiter, they possessed a military that was technologically and numerically on par with that of the CEGA. Both sides could have started firing simultaneously, given their temperaments.

"However, the CEGA Navy's official statement claims that it had been pursuing a vessel commandeered by the notorious terrorist organization STRIKE when it was ambushed by the Jovian carrier. The Navy has admitted that its vessel was struck during the fighting and there were several casualties. However, no figures are available as the Navy is still in the midst of notifying the deceased next-of-kin. The CEGA Navy claims to have inflicted damage on the Jovian vessel as well, though the JAF would neither confirm nor deny this."

_Goodness_, Lydia gasped. People had been killed in this incident. While it was unlikely that Joint Services High Command would publish the names or numbers of killed and wounded, the fact the incident had come to the knowledge of ZONET at all meant that it was relatively serious. Suddenly, the training that Armistead had been putting them through, preparing them for possible hostilities against the Jovians, was placed in sharp focus and proper perspective. Lydia's illusion of chilly but otherwise cordial relations between the Confederation and the CEGA was cracking again.

"What is known is that both warships, along with the merchant vessel, survived the encounter. This network has so far been unable to contact the crew of the _Solar Wanderer_, which was civilian vessel involved in the incident." The images of the warships faded away, replaced once more by the news anchor.

"Both governments are now seeking compensation from the other as a result of this incident. It remains unclear if this latest act of hostility would affect the ongoing debate regarding the Martian Crisis at the USN Chambers on Pyrea Station. At present, the CEGA remains supportive of the Federations case for reparations while the Jovians have remained somewhat cool towards their ally, the Martian Free Republic. Some commentators believed that this shooting incident may force the Jovians to polarize its support for the Free Republic, if only to oppose the CEGA at the USN Chambers."

Lydia wasn't really listening anymore. Her thoughts were whirling. Two years ago, when the events of the Odyssey occurred resulting in the fall of the Martian Elevator as well as the insane attack against the Jovian capital by a rogue CEGA admiral, the Solar System had been poised at the brink of war. And yet, both superpowers had managed to walk away from that incident. Now it seemed as if lessons had been forgotten once more.

"The Martian Crisis broke out when a correspondent from this network discovered substantial proof of Republican involvement in the Elevator Crash of 2210 back in October. We'll bring you updates of that developing crisis right after these messages."

As the advertisements began to roll over her, Lydia sagged back in her seat. The universe around her was changing too quickly. Life seemed so much simpler back in her days with the Inter-settlement Geographical Service when the specter of war did not hang over her and her friends from the other Solar Nations.

Life seemed far more pleasant even when the two superpowers of the Solar System were going eyeball to eyeball, engaging in an arms race that may yet bear disastrous results one day.

She stared at the datapad and stylus still in her hands and remembered her intention to write to her friends. She decided she would start with the Jovians first. Spending a few moments to decide which one she would write to first, she finally decided to write to her closest Jovian friend first.

It had been four years since she last seen that spunky girl from Elysée. That would have made her twenty-one in July. She smiled at the memory of the times they had spent spacewalking in some of the most beautiful locales of the Solar System with her. She recalled all the silly things they used to talk about during the long months aboard ship, traveling from place to place. Yes, those were some of the loveliest and most cherished memories of her life.

Absently, Lydia wondered what her friend was doing now, what she'd done in the last couple of months since they last exchanged letters, what she thought about all the tension between their nations. Perhaps she might have an answer to the madness. Perhaps her younger and more idealistic friend might provide a perspective that would shed rays of hope into the gloomy future.

Lydia brought the stylus to the datapad's touchscreen and began to write.

_Hey there, Miss Breanna Chan . . ._


	32. 32 Demands and Deliberations

**DEMANDS AND DELIBERATIONS**

_Diplomats are useful only in fair weather. As soon as it rains they drown in every drop._

-Charles De Gaulle-

**02 FEBRUARY 2213**

**USN ASSEMBLY BUILDING, PYREA STATION **

**CLUSTER 17, LAGRANGE POINT L3, EARTH ORBIT **

Lieutenant Commander Alvin Ng stifled a yawn as he shifted in his seat next to Councilor Chang's. It certainly wasn't because he was tired though he had to admit that working for Ignatius Chang was certainly tiring most of the time. He had enough to do each day to keep his mind off Kallie for the past month though the challenges were very different from the ones he was used to facing.

Councilor Chang shot him a glance and Alvin responded with a sheepish look. His boss merely nodded and shrugged. The Ambassador from the Martian Federation, Klaus Metzger was still delivering his opening remarks for the day's session to discuss the Martian Crisis. So far, he had taken close to twenty minutes and was showing no sign of letting up. It didn't help that he spoke his heavily-accented English in complete monotone.

Alvin's eyes swept across the massive chamber where the delegates from the other Solar Nations had gathered. Scores of staffers accompanied the various delegates and the galleries were filled with other observers like himself. Alvin noted the military uniforms on the men and women from the Armed Forces of the other Solar Nations. The colors represented were indicative of each nation's power, with Jovian and CEGA uniforms making up the bulk of the military personnel present in the room.

Most of them had their features seemingly etched in stone, unwilling to betray anything that they might have been feeling. A few were stifling yawns as well while handful, particularly the Jovians and Free Republicans looked ready to thrash the Federate speaker if they had been given the green light. Even in the media gallery, the normally attentive reporters and journalists were wearing expressions of abject boredom and restlessness.

"In the days that followed the catastrophe that was the Elevator Fall, the Federation has gallantly striven to repair the damage to the planet. We have sacrifice much in money, time and effort to alleviate the predicament of the victims of this horrendous catastrophe. We have endeavored in seeking the answers for this horrific event believing it is the rightful entitlement of all who were affected by this tragedy and have availed our resources and assets to other international bodies seeking the same truth that we do. We even laid aside our differences with our neighbor, the Martian Free Republic. Yet little did we realize the true extent of the Republic's involvement in this heinous act of wanton terrorism."

Alvin shifted his gaze towards the delegation from the Free Republic and he could see its members exchanging animated words with one another. Clearly, they weren't happy at what was being said. None of it was particularly new and Alvin had heard the same, re-worded protests from the Federation day after day whenever the USN General Assembly convened. It did not help that the Federate delegates were particularly imperious in their tone or that the Republicans were hot-headed in their response to the Federate accusations and demands.

Metzger droned on. "Yet the Federation was ready to practice tolerance of a signal level by choosing not to see this whole tragic incident as an act of war. We believe that the reparations that we have requested are more than reasonable. We have chosen to avoid the path of war by opting to seek reparations that are out of proportion to the magnitude of the damage and suffering inflicted upon the Federation. And yet, in spite of the evidence presented against them, the Republic has not only refused to admit its culpability in the Elevator Fall and rebuffed our offers of a peaceful resolution through the payment of reparations, but it has even gone so far as to test our borders with increased frequency."

At that point, Metzger dropped the sheets of printed plastic that he had been reading from and paused to look around at the galleries where the other delegations, their staffs and the media were seated. It was a well-known fact that Klaus Metzger was not a particularly imaginative man so most took it as a blessed sign that his speech was finally coming to an end.

Alvin noted that the sudden break in the monotonous droning had caused several in the grand meeting chamber to wake up suddenly. Chairwoman Mogesha Johari was looking hopefully towards the Federate speaker. Alvin was almost sure her eyes were urging him to get lost. She wasn't the only one who felt that way.

"Friends," Metzger said with a bit more emotion than before. "The Federation and its people do not seek war or revenge but merely justice. We remain perplexed as to why the Republic would refuse our generous terms. While we all strive to avoid hostilities of any form, the patience of the Federation's people is finite. The hundreds of thousands who lost their lives as well as their families, all call for justice. Justice, if I may remind you all, that we have relied on this Assembly to provide. Our patience is now wearing thin. If the Republic refuses to negotiate in good faith, then I believe the message to us seems clear. I hope the Assembly will convince the Republic to see the error of its ways before it is too late. Thank you."

There was no thunderous applause as Metzger concluded and sat back down. There wasn't even the slightest scattering of half-hearted clapping from the gathered thousands in the chamber. Everyone was just glad that the man was done talking.

The image on the massive screen dominating the wall behind the Chair flashed from that of the now-seated Metzger to that of Chairwoman Johari. A soft chiming sounded amidst the deep murmuring in the chamber. There was no response and the murmuring grew louder as delegates took time to discuss their responses while journalists exchanged notes. The chiming grew more urgent and Chairwoman Johari leaned towards her microphone and cleared her throat.

"Order, please." Johari tapped her gavel lightly but loudly enough to gain the attention of everyone in the General Assembly. Once again, the chime sounded as a delegation sought recognition from the Chair. Johari seemed to sigh softly before she said, "The Chair, recognizes the Honorable Hector Walhberg, Ambassador for the Martian Free Republic. Ambassador Wahlberg."

The image on screen shifted to that of Walhberg's. The man, somewhat uncharacteristically for a diplomat, was shaking with barely suppressed fury as he rose to his feet, voice amplified by the microphones positioned around his delegation.

"Madame Chairwoman and esteemed members of the United Solar Nations' General Assembly. I must restate, for the umpteenth time, that the 'offers' of the Federation are nothing short of extortion. Their demands are neither fair nor reasonable and they completely ignore the fact that many Republicans also lost their lives and homes in the Elevator Disaster!" Walhberg fumed.

"We have made it clear over and over again that the perpetrators of this horrific attack were members of a secessionist movement from the Isidis Planitia. The Federate demands for reparations as well as the right to 'assist' us in . . . 'policing' our borders is nothing short of preposterous and only a lunatic would accede to such a ludicrous proposal!"

"Ambassador Walhberg, if you would please mind . . ." Johari raised her gavel threateningly.

"No, I will _not_ mind my tone. The Republic will not stand to be bullied into submission by the Federation. Not on Mars and certainly not in the General Assembly. If all of you will stand by and do nothing while one nation tries to extort money and resources from a nation equally affected by the same disaster, then this United Solar Nations is nothing but a sham!"

There was a rumble of murmurs rippling through the assembly of people. Alvin noted that the men and women in the media galleries were copiously taking notes and recording Walhberg's tirade. The Republican turned his gaze towards the Federate delegation. "And do not think your thinly-veiled threats are lost upon us, Metzger. I think you are mistaken. It is the Federation's message that is unequivocally clear here."

Wahlberg pointed an accusing finger at the delegate from the Martian Federation. "You make it sound as if Feddies could wipe us out in the next war that you are just looking to start. That last time you jackbooted clowns tried to . . . resolve the situation by force of arms, it all came apart. And the same thing's happened more than once. So don't you dictate to us until you're marching through Chirice! And even then we still won't listen . . .

To everyone's surprise, Klaus Metzger stood up without thumbing his attention button. The other members of the Federate delegation stood up around him and they glared at Walhberg. For a sickening moment, Alvin was almost sure Metzger was going to leap out of his booth and exchange blows with the irascible Walhberg. Even the normally imperturbable Ignatius Chang seemed to tense up at the likely confrontation.

And then Walhberg and his delegation did the one thing that no one in the massive assembly chamber expected. Following his lead, the entire Federate delegation turned away and began to head for the nearest exit without saying a word. Walhberg paused and his look of utter surprise was displayed in its massive form for all to see on the main screen as he spluttered in shock at the departing delegation. "What the . . .? Where are you going? You can't just walk out like this! Do you know what kind of message you're sending us?"

Chairwoman Johari chose that moment to intervene, banging her gavel in a vain attempt to restore order. Even she was clearly unprepared for the walkout that the Federates were now staging. "The Federate delegation . . . The Federate delegation will return to their seats now! By walking out of this hall, you are disrupting this discussion and making yourself liable to arbitration that may be administered by this Assembly! Please, return to your seats now!"

But no one in the Federate party paid any heed and Metzger was the first one out the door with the rest of his people in tow. Hundreds of voices were speaking now, ranging from murmurs and calls to return from fellow delegates of the other Solar Nations to shouted questions from those in the media gallery.

Chariwoman Johari was still banging her gavel fruitlessly but even her amplified appeals were being drowned out by the collective noise of the General Assembly in uproar. Alvin wasn't sure if he should be shocked or amused. He looked to Councilor Chang and got no cue or clue from him.

As the last man in the Federate delegation disappeared through the doorway and the doors slid shut behind him, it became clear that it wasn't a matter of brinkmanship. The Federates had truly walked out. The gavel fell out of Johari's hand as she stared at those unyielding doors in shock.

And then the entire USN General Assembly, less the representatives from the Martian Federation, went berserk.


	33. 33 Mobilizations

**MOBILIZATIONS**

_I know that every good and excellent thing in the world stands moment by moment on the razor edge of danger and must be fought for, whether it's a field, or a home, or a country._

-Thornton Wilder-

**02 FEBRUARY 2213**

**KURTZENHEIM, PAVONIA PRINCIPALITY**

**MARTIAN FEDERATION, MARS**

It had been going on for over a week and there had been no sign of let up. While the diplomats had deliberated and dithered at the USN General Assembly on Pyrea, Lois Lafraniere had remained in Kurtzenheim, covering developments from the Federate capital. She had tried to keep abreast of things in the Republic and on Pyrea and her colleagues working in those locales had reported that a diplomatic solution was still a long way off.

Apparently, no one had bothered to assure the people in Kurtzenheim and for nine days now, its citizens had been treated to daily displays of military hardware traveling down the length of the Freiheitstrasse, past the Ministry of Peace complex before heading for the city outskirts. On the first day of the 'parades' a reviewing stand had been set up on the steps leading up to the Ministry of Peace, and a gaggle of heavily-bemedalled _Bundesarmee_ top brass had gathered to watch as an entire armored division had paraded down the street.

It had taken the better part of a morning for the entire division to the reviewing officers, _grupen_ upon _grupen_ of hovertanks, armored personnel carriers and support vehicles rumbling past at slow speed as the commander of each vehicle saluted the gathered military leaders. The _Polizei_ had been out in force as well, to keep the curious public at bay, as well as to cordon off any stray traffic that might otherwise find itself in the way of a sixty-ton hovertank. In her journey up and down the Freiheitstrasse, she had estimated that close to five thousand _Polizei_ officers must have been deployed just to line the streets alone.

While she certainly was no expert on military equipment and couldn't really tell a top-of-the-line hovertank from an aging armored personnel carrier, she knew that the entire display had been meant as a show of force. No effort was made to disguise the troop numbers or the identity of the unit, (the Fourteenth Panzer Division) that moving out. Nor was its destination any secret. The entire division was headed out towards the city of Torgau, which was not far from the Republican Territory of Olympus, for a series of divisional level exercises.

The State media, which had been keeping up a steady barrage of reports about the Republic's constant testing of the Federation's borders, had made a huge deal of the Fourteenth's activation and deployment to the vicinity of the border. Whether the whole display had been to reassure the Federate public or to send a message to the Republic was not particularly clear, but in her time on Mars, Lois had never witnessed such an assemblage of military hardware in downtown Kurtzenheim. It was most certainly an occurrence without recent precedent.

Getting the researchers back on Kolis Station to do the legwork for her, she had found out that the last time an entire _Panzer_ division had come rolling down the Freiheitstrasse had been in the dark days after the Elevator Crash when the paranoid Ministry of Peace had believe that the Republic might have taken advantage of the aftermath to seize territory from the Federation. Tens of thousands of Reservists had been called up and sent to the borders as well as the disaster area to assist in rescue operations and to guard against a Republican attack.

That had been four years ago Perhaps in an ominous sense of _deja vu_, the current crisis had been brought about when it was discovered that the Republic had indeed been involved in the Elevator Crash of 2210. Perhaps even more sinisterly, the mobilizations had then only lasted some five days. This time, it had taken ten and they were still going on. Though there was nothing as grand as an entire division moving through after the first day, military convoys were now passing in silent review on a thrice-daily basis. Most of the _Bundesarmee's_ regular units were already on the border or in the Principalities adjacent to the Republican Territories. The State media was quick to reassure the citizens of Kurtzenheim that despite the forward deployment of many of the military's units, the capital's crack garrison forces would remain unmoved, standing ready as ever to defend the Federation's heart from attack.

Perhaps that in itself was a message, Lois mused as she stood on outside the Ministry of Truth, watching yet another military convoy pass - the second one she had seen today. This convoy contained no tanks or armored vehicles, composed mainly of trucks packed with grim-faced men and women in combat suits that had seen better days. A clear sign that yet another unit of reservists had been called up for duty and were now on their way out into the Martian desert for a series of 'exercises'.

Unlike the Rangers of the Free Republic, the Martian _Bundesarmee_ was largely a volunteer force though it had a sizeable portion of draftees, mostly the dregs of society who were spared from the gulags for one reason or another. But even a police state like the Federation had trouble maintaining such a huge army despite the relative willingness of its soldiers to make a career out of the army. Foreseeing a need for many more soldiers than the Regular Army could ever hope to have, the Ministry of Peace had adopted a system where every willing recruit had a fifty-fifty chance of being prematurely retired to the Reserves after an initial tour of duty lasting up to ten years.

Most enlisted personnel who failed to make it to _Feldwebel_ at the end of their ten year tour were transferred to the Reserves though draftees normally served till they died or reached retirement age. As for officers, _Hauptmann_ was the safe zone if anyone wanted to remain in for any longer than ten years.

This theoretically gave the _Bundesarmee_ the advantage of retaining its best troops as true Regulars while building up a massive pool of trained Reserves. Military matters weren't particularly conversant on military matters but she knew that this was in conformance with the Federation's mantra of 'quantity has a quality of its own' when it came to opposing the Free Republic and its numerically inferior guerilla army. She had assumed that most of the Reservists would end up serving as _Polizei_ officers or Red Caps upon their discharge from the army. It would only have made sense since the Federation never seemed satisfied with the number of police it could place on its streets.

But her casual investigations into the matter during the course of preparation for a story a few days back had revealed that such was not the case. Apparently, despite it monolithic structure, the Federate government wasn't stupid enough to risk having half its police force and informants being taken off the streets in the event of a major mobilization. Most of them were given jobs prepared for them by the army upon their release - jobs that were significant enough for them to make useful contributions but insignificant enough that they would not be missed in the event of a nationwide mobilization – which seemed to be the case if the events of the past few days had been anything to go by.

Lois had never seen so much military hardware in her entire life. It seemed as if an endless stream of Reserve units were being activated in Kurtzenheim alone. It was almost as if the streets were yielding up secret pockets of manpower to the Federation's military machine. The streets didn't seem any less crowded in spite of the dozens, if not scores of units whose troops were being recalled, reequipped and redeployed to forward areas along the border. Part of her wondered if it was perhaps the same group of soldiers and vehicles moving in convoy down the street day after day. Such was the extent of their numbers. Surely, no one was expected to believe the Federate explanation that these troop movements were simply part of a scheduled exercise of its Reserve troops.

And while the State media was harping on about how well-trained the Reserves were, they had simply remained silent about the status of the Regular units, most of which were already stationed along the bordered. It was mildly terrifying to note that despite the fact that talks were still proceeding on Pyrea in an effort to come up with a diplomatic solution, the situation back on Mars was deteriorating to a point where she wouldn't be too shocked if she was told that the entire nation was now on the eve of war.

Her colleagues in the Republic were reporting that mobilizations were taking place as well to counter the 'Federate posturing' though clearly not at such as fever pitch as she had been witnessing in Kurtzenheim over the past ten days. But knowing the Republic, it was probably mobilizing as frantically as it could, just not as publicly as the Federation.

Lois paused to retrieve her camera from her bag. She already had far more footage of Federate military vehicles and troops than she would like to have. It had been exciting for the first three days, but as the mobilizations continued to drag on, her bosses simply got tired of it and were telling her to find something newsworthy to report. Like an entire nation preparing itself for war wasn't newsworthy enough, Lois thought bitterly. For a moment, she wished the Federation would just hurry up and get things over with instead of sending taking its own sweet time parading vehicles and troops through its capital.

Her thumb hovered over the 'record' button as she stared at the convoy, looking for some vehicle or something else that she had not gotten on video. She wondered if she could make a story out of how the mobilizations had been going on for ten days straight. It would probably make it to the next bulletin though it would probably be the kind of story used as filler in between other breaking news such as CEGA and Jovian relations after the _Solar Wanderer_ Incident, or the thus-fruitless debates at the USN General Assembly.

There was a temporary break in the flow of military traffic as yet another unit passed by her position, motorcycle trailers bringing up the rear. Shifting her gaze, she saw yet another column of trucks approaching. But these seemed different somehow. As the first few droned past her, she tried to spot some kind of unit insignia to match with the limited mental database. But it proved to be somewhat fruitless. The trucks for the most part were unmarked, being extraordinary in the fact that they looked so ordinary. In fact, they looked the run-of-the-mill supply truck that would never make it to the headlines.

She would almost have believed that too, if it weren't for her reporter's instincts tipping her off to some of the subtle that set this convoy apart from the others. Firstly, there was the lateral separation between each truck. Compared to the previous convoys she had seen, this one was comparatively spaced out. Next was the fact that there were more motorcycle outriders for this convoy along with several _Sabertooth_ exo-suits making up the flankers as the convoy threaded its way down the wide road. Then there was the fact that the number of _Polizei_ in the area had suddenly increased though they all seemed particularly edgy for some reason or another.

Looking through the viewfinder of her camera, she zoomed in on the cab of one of the trucks passing by. The man at the wheel seemed middle-aged though his uniform seemed relatively new. The rank tabs on his collar looked new as well. She wasn't too familiar with _Bundesarmee_ ranks but she knew enough to tell that he was either a recently-promoted Reservist with a new uniform . . . or he was a draftee. Zooming in on the next truck in line, she made similar observations. By the fourth truck, she was convinced that the drivers in the convoy were indeed draftees. The scum of the Federate society, sentenced to a life of servitude in the military until they were killed or lived long enough to retire.

But why would a convoy of trucks driven by such men and women be accorded such a heavy security detail? She stared at the hastily erected shelters covering the cargo decks on the flatbed trucks. Were they ferrying some sort of unit that was better kept out of the public eye? If so, why even bother coming through Kurtzenheim in the first place? The State media had spoken about how it was tradition that every unit heading off to war would try its best to make a symbolic parade past the Ministry of Peace before heading out to defend the Federation. But she didn't put much stock in that as an explanation. Surely the Federates didn't hang on that tightly to symbolism, did they?

She had heard rumors of a unit in the _Bundesarmee_ known as the _Bewarhrungtruppen_. Composed of hardcore criminals both military and otherwise, they were the modern equivalent of penal battalions in the armies of antiquity. Lightly-armed and brutally-treated, theirs was a simple choice. Undertake suicidal missions with the slim hope of earning a pardon or simply go before a firing squad because of their crimes. They were treated as little more than animals, to be kept caged until they were needed. Of course, the State had gone out of its way to quash such rumors, which in the case of the Federation, probably meant those rumors were true.

But luck, if she could call it that, was with her today and she didn't have to spend much longer agonizing over the contents of the truck. The canvas cover on one of the flatbeds, poorly-secured by some unhappy draftee no doubt, suddenly ripped free as the truck passed and its cargo was suddenly clear for everyone to see. The flatbed had been stacked high with cases containing Arces surface-to-air missiles (SAMs). Lois recalled them being part of some fairly recent upgrade to Federate hovertanks to allow them to defeat Republican 'flying' tanks. That would read top-of-the-line munitions in anybody's book.

And as she read the stenciled wordings on the side of those cases, she realized that each one contained four live rounds, not practice ammunition as she had assumed. And a whole truckload of those missiles seemed like far more missiles than even the relatively wealthy Federation would be willing to expend in field 'exercises'. And if the magnitude of that discovery was somehow lost upon the civilian that was inherent in Lois, the fact that she had seen the cargo of only one truck in what seemed like over a hundred was not.

She could barely hit the 'record' button as the several exo-suited infantry tried to get the exposed truck covered once again. And meanwhile, scores of trucks - each presumably heavily-laden with ammunition in quantities that a peacetime army on training exercises would never need - continued to lumber past Lois Lafraniere.


	34. 34 Afteraction Reports

**AFTER-ACTION REPORTS**

_Leave that to me. I am the only one who must apologize to His Majesty._

-Adm Isoroku Yamamoto-

**02 FEBRUARY 2213**

**JSS FORGE, NEAR THE ASTEROID BELT **

**INTERNATIONAL SPACE**

Captain Ron Dicher reclined in his seat, throwing his head back and expelling a frustrated sigh in the direction of the ceiling of his tiny but comfortable office. It had already been a long day and it didn't seem to be getting any shorter. Remaining absolutely silent for a long while, he could hear and feel the throb of heavy machinery as the _Forge_ continued its journey through space. There was something irregular about the noise. It wasn't the kind of sounds a healthy ship produced.

Not that the _Forge_ was in mint condition, especially after its recent combat encounter in the vicinity of the Asteroid Belt. Post-combat investigations had revealed that the habitat's structural ring had been badly damaged. It had been a fluke shot that had not been serious enough to put the vessel at risk during the battle but it meant that the Forge's voyage was over.

The buckled and twisted hull plates and internal plumbing meant that any attempt to rotate the habitat ring to generate gravity (considered by Jovians to be essential for crew health) would result in the ring's disintegration. Similarly, any attempt to produce acceleration in excess of 0.3 _g_s would lead to further damage.

In short, though the _Forge_ was in no danger as long as it did not exceed certain performance parameters, she was effectively useless until she could get to a JAF yard where the entire ring could be replaced - ironically a process that would take no more than a day.

With that single hit, the _Forge_ was forced to limp home at reduced speed – a journey that would take weeks – in order to anchor at a JAF base. While the lack of continuous acceleration and a rotating habitat meant that they were all now working in microgravity, Ron wasn't too bothered by that. He had always enjoyed the sensation of freefall. He just wished it hadn't come with the price tag of muscle atrophy.

He yawned and stretched himself, noticing a slight ache in his arms. They were already beginning to lose some of their tone in the days spent in microgravity. The effects could be slowed but never eliminated, through a daily regime of vigorous exercise as well as supplemental drugs.

His busy schedule over the last few days had seem him getting too little of the former and he knew he'd have to exercise a lot more soon or he would be in serious trouble. Wrenching his mind away from those thoughts, he returned his attention to his computer, the source of all his distraction from regular exercise.

The after-action report for the engagement that had taken place on 21 January 2213 had been more troublesome than he had expected. He had seen combat several times in the course of his career and he had submitted a fair number of post-combat reports. But never had he been forced to re-submit his drafts a dozen times over.

Against pirates, it was normally a simple matter of describing what happened. In the few times he had engaged the CEGA, it was normally more complicated but still manageable in the end. This time, with the Martian Crisis looming, it seemed as if the Confederation's government was trying its best to avoid any conflict with the CEGA, at least until the crisis on the Red Planet was resolved.

As each successive draft was returned to him, Ron was finally beginning to understand what was going on. Each rejected draft was returned with suggestions for subtle changes to the wording of his report. He had interviewed his pilots over and over again and made countless amendments to his report but he already knew where the JAF's investigation was headed.

One of their precious carriers had been damaged in an attempt to rescue a civilian ship that hadn't even bothered to stop to say 'thank you'. The _Wanderer_ had given the wallowing _Forge_ the slip as soon as Ron and his wingman returned to the carrier while low on fuel. Captain Polwalski had then ruled out trying to locate the freighter, deciding that it was more important to begin their journey back to Jovian territory than to look for some ungrateful transport.

In the aftermath, the CEGA had raised one hell of stink over the damage inflicted on its ship and the unprovoked attack perpetrated by the Jovians. Though they had communication logs and sensor recordings to prove otherwise, without the testimony of the _Wanderer's_ crew, the Jovians were still on shaky ground, particularly in the international scope of things. And considering that the only fatalities occurred on the CEGA side, the Earther's had a mild moral advantage. Things had been made worse by the fact that Martian Crisis was making international relations somewhat tense.

The Federation continued to demand reparations for the Elevator Crash. The CEGA, as its ally, was fully behind the Federates while the Free Republic was still waiting for a similar pledge of support from the Jovians. According to analysts and observers, the Jovians were still wary, perhaps unwilling to come into direct confrontation with the CEGA for the fear that it would prolong negotiations and perhaps cost the Confederation dearly. But the _Solar Wanderer_ Incident, as the skirmish on the 21st of January was now being called, had brought CEGA and Confederation animosity into sharp focus. Word was that the Jovian government's hand had been forced somewhat and the Agora was preparing to state its intention to support the Free Republic's claims of innocence in the Elevator Disaster.

Of course, the Jovian politicos weren't particularly happy at that state of affairs and someone would have to take the blame sooner or later. In short, the subsequent revisions of his report were slowly beginning to point back towards the Captain of the JSS _Forge_ and its squadron commander for being overly zealous in the pursuit of their duties. At the moment, it was still undecided who was going to take the bulk of the blame. Captain Polwalski, as skipper of the Forge, had overall tactical control while Ron could easily be blamed as well as the squadron commander in what was essentially and exo skirmish.

Ron stared at the report again sighing loudly. The universe wasn't as simple as it used to be. He was about to resume typing when the doorbell chimed. He looked up and stared at the door, wondering if he should attend to whoever was seeking an audience with him. It would probably mean having to move his much-postponed appointment with the gym even further back. The door chimed again. And he relented. Whoever was willing to chime a second time was probably important.

"Enter." He thumbed the 'unlock' stud on his desk and the hatch hissed open sideways to reveal his former student, Officer Adelene Chan, standing in the doorway.

"May I come in, sir?"

"Of course, Adelene." Ron Dicher broke out into a tired grin. "Have a seat."

The exo flight leader crossed the short distance from the hatchway to the seat in front of his desk in a heartbeat and sat herself down. Ron leaned back in his own chair once more and regarded the woman with an inquiring look. "What can I do for you?"

"I was just wondering when you'd finish that AAR, sir. For what happened with the _Solar Wanderer_ and . . ." Adelene's voice faltered and she looked down at the desk nervously. "Yeah. That was it, sir."

"Don't worry." Ron smiled reassuringly at her. "Your butt is pretty well-covered as it is and I'm doing my best to make sure you don't get indicted for anything."

Adelene looked back up with a mixture of shock and surprise on her face. "Sir, I didn't mean to imply that I was interested in . . ."

"Well, you didn't do anything wrong in any case, alright?" The squadron commander interrupted her, taking on an even more reassuring tone.

"Well, neither did you, sir." Adelene countered.

That took Ron by surprised and it was a few moments before he had composed himself sufficiently to reply. "What makes you think that it's an issue?"

"That they keep bouncing the report back to you. And I know they do that because you and the Captain keep interviewing us." Adelene explained, a look of concern spreading across her face. "They're trying to make a scapegoat out of you and the Captain, aren't they?"

"Firstly, Adelene . . . who is 'they'?"

"I don't know, sir." The younger pilot shrugged. "The brass, the politicians. The people who would rather have us die than cause an international incident?"

Ron chuckled at his former student. Some things would never change. "Well, I'm sure if you were killed, it would still be an international incident."

Adelene chortled along before turning serious again. "But, honestly, sir . . . are you in trouble because of this?"

"That remains to be seen, Adelene." Ron sighed and shook his head. "But there's nothing you can do about it."

"Sir, it's not your fault. I can . . ."

"No." Ron said firmly, holding up a finger towards her for emphasis. "You are not going to try and protect me at your own expense. Is that clear, Officer Chan?"

"As a bell, sir." Adelene grated reluctantly in reply.

"Good." Ron nodded, then allowed his features to soften. "Was there anything else?"

"You're going to keep on working at this report?"

"I suppose so." Ron shrugged and resisted the urge to sigh again.

"Well, no point rushing it if they're only going to send it back to you, sir." Adelene shrugged as well. "I can think of better ways to spend the time."

"And that would be?"

"It'd be nice if the squadron commander would so grace us with his presence in the gym and lead us in some calisthenics." Adelene grinned, producing a towel from under the table and tossing it in his direction. "How about it, sir?"

Ron caught the towel in midair and grinned as he rose. "Oh, well. What the hell, right?"


End file.
